


Tomorrow Never Knows

by pandarave12



Series: Days [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha Mycroft, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Arranged Marriage, M/M, Omega Greg, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:43:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 88,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandarave12/pseuds/pandarave12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Growing up isn't easy. Growing up with the person you're supposed to spend the rest of your life with is even harder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

> Exaggerated the characterization slightly to make things humorous. Also, apologies, English is not my first language. I live in the mountains, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by bears.

It’s far from unexpected, really. A part of Sherlock has always known that this whole thing is inevitable. Mycroft went through with it and so did every other member of the family. But as Sherlock has never been reasonable when angered, the tantrum that comes after the announcement is also quite far from unexpected.

“NO!” Sherlock is on the floor, screaming at the top of his lungs. “I DON’T WANT TO!”

Greg’s ears are in pain. Also his face. He thinks it’s quite unfair that it’s him who gets hit with the shoe when really it should be Mycroft. He’s the one who broke the news to Sherlock. Greg turns to him to make him see the injustice of this all. Mycroft’s response is to sigh and hand him a bunch of tissues. He then tells Greg to wipe his nose which is beginning to bleed.

They stare at Sherlock who glares back at them from his position on the floor. He’s sprawled on his back, his legs and arms spread as if he’s about to make a snow angel. He actually looks like one, really. With his curly black hair and pink cheeks, Sherlock looks every bit like a cherub, minus the scowl on his face. “Don’t want to,” he repeats, and while he’s no longer shouting, there’s still quite a lot of vehemence behind the words.

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice on the matter, Sherlock,” Mycroft tells him. “Your bond mate is coming here this afternoon. It’s already been decided on.”

The other shoe flies. Fortunately, Greg is aware of its approach and ducks behind Mycroft so that the shoe narrowly misses him by a few inches. It’s embarrassingly cliché: the poor Omega seeking the protection of his Alpha. But no one else seems to notice.

“It’s not too bad, Sherlock,” Greg tries, “I’m bonded to My and we’re okay.”

“That’s cause you’re stupid.” Sherlock sits up and points an accusing finger at him. “I’m not kissing anyone!”

“Sherlock, you’re six-years-old. They’re only going to bond you temporarily, and when you’re old enough, you can decide if you want to have a permanent bond or if you want to break the temporary one. You’re not going to kiss anyone for a long time.”

“Mummy will want me to,” Sherlock argues, “And it’s easy to say. Can you see yourself kissing Greg?”

At twelve, Greg has spent enough time with his friends and older cousins to know that kissing will be the least of his worries. He sneaks a glance at Mycroft. He’s not bad looking. A little pudgy maybe but that’s because of the cakes they keep stealing from the pantry. Greg knows that if he didn’t play football, he’d gain weight as well so he doesn’t comment on it. He’s known Mycroft since he was Sherlock’s age. They’ve spent a lot of time together since their first blood exchange. However, Greg can’t picture himself doing…well, anything other than friendly gestures with Mycroft.

Best not to think about that yet, though.

Mycroft is unfazed by it. He merely stares at his brother and says, “Your bond mate will hardly be a stranger to you, Sherlock. An arranged bond has its advantages, especially to an Omega like you.”

If Sherlock had more shoes with him there would undoubtedly be another one sailing towards them.

“Besides, his family’s friends with us,” Mycroft continues, “Father and Mummy will never let you go to some incompetent Alpha. You’ll like him.”

“I don’t like anyone.”

Well, that’s not entirely true. Greg knows for a fact that Sherlock likes him. He doesn’t say it but he’s always trailing after Greg when he’s visiting. Greg doesn’t know if it’s because he’s an Omega like Sherlock or if it’s because Greg can fill in the parts where Mycroft lacks skills in. In short, all the parts that aren’t about protecting him.

But right now, yes, Sherlock definitely does not like anyone. He glares at them once more before he grabs his old teddy bear (is it a bear in a bee costume or a hybrid?) and runs out of the room, leaving Greg alone with Mycroft.

“So…” Greg stares at him once more. Best not think about that whole kissing issue. Mycroft’s thirteen and he’s twelve. It will be three more years before he gets…frisky like they said in health class. Besides, both of their parents have agreed not to have the two of them engage in any...er, activities before they turn eighteen. It isn’t a bad thing to have a pre-bond. At least Greg won’t have to worry about being jumped while he’s walking down the street unlike most Omegas. And at least he already knows the person he's going to spend the rest of his life with. Of course, it’s still kind of weird to know that when people smell him, they smell Mycroft as well, albeit faintly. But as the other option is to wander around unprotected, Greg thinks being bonded to Mycroft really is the better choice.

He grins a little. “Er, you want some cake?”

Mycroft shrugs. “Let’s go.”

* * *

 

They gave him a bath and made him put on clean clothes. They also took Teddy away from him, and when Sherlock tried to steal him back, his nanny placed him on one of the high shelves of the bookcase. It’s not a problem that can’t be solved. Sherlock knows how to stack things high enough for him to get his Teddy back, though Mummy doesn’t like it when he does that. He remembers all too well how he broke his arm last summer after falling out of the big tree in their backyard. Mummy doesn’t like it when he climbs things. Sherlock also remembers that Mummy yelled at Mycroft the day he broke his arm because Mycroft was supposed to be looking after him, but instead ran off with Greg.

Sherlock thinks he should break his arm more often even though it did hurt a lot.

It’s Mummy who gets him, not Mycroft and Sherlock is glad because he really doesn’t want to talk to Mycroft right now. His brother’s always so smug. It’s an Alpha nature, Sherlock has learned, but it still gets to him that he’s not an Alpha like his brother. Instead he gets to be a stupid Omega and people keep treating him like he’s made of glass because they think he’s so delicate. It’s a good thing that Sherlock’s not like the usual Omegas. He bites and screams and hurts people he doesn’t like. He’s a fighter, always has been, so when Mummy leads him to the living room, all he thinks about is that he’ll hurt his supposed bond mate as well until he leaves Sherlock alone.

Mycroft and Greg are in the living room with three people Sherlock has never before seen in his life. The woman is obviously the mother of the two children. They all have blond hair and blue eyes and they all look uncomfortable, squished together in the settee. Sherlock tightens his hand around his mother’s fingers and doesn’t budge.

“Make them go away.”

Mummy frowns at him. “Now, Sherlock, we’ve been talking about this for months now. It’s okay if you’re shy.”

Sherlock is never shy. And to prove it, he wrenches his hand out of his mother’s and crosses the living room to take a seat in Father’s chair. Father won’t mind; he’s somewhere abroad again. The blond woman smiles at him while the children frown. The girl is much younger than him, four maybe so she’s beneath Sherlock’s notice. It must be the boy, then, and Mycroft did say ‘he’. But the boy is older, maybe by three years. He stares at Sherlock openly, his dark blue eyes widening as he turns to his mother and says, “He’s too young!”

Sherlock immediately hates him.

Greg laughs at that, and to add to Sherlock’s annoyance, Mycroft smiles a little. “My eldest and his bond mate,” Mummy says in an exasperated voice that quiets Greg.

“Ah.” The woman smiles at Greg who blushes and mumbles an apology. Sherlock thinks he likes the woman, even though he doesn’t care much for the son.

“This is Harriet?” Mummy is smiling at the girl know who nods and tries to hide her face in her mother’s sleeve. “And John, of course. Such a handsome boy.”

The boy, John, manages a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s still looking at Sherlock warily as if Sherlock’s a wild animal. Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. Mummy’s lying. John isn’t handsome. No, John looks weird. His ears stick out too much and he’s got a funny mouth and an even funnier nose. His shirt, which has a blue police box on the front, is stupid and there’s a hole on the knee of his jeans. He reminds Sherlock of the troll in that book Greg gave to him and he tells them so, to the chagrin of Mummy who looks like she wants to take Teddy away for a whole week again which she did when she found Sherlock ~~experimenting~~ playing with matches.

John looks angry. “I do _not_ look like a troll.” He turns to his mother again. “Can we please go now?”

But John doesn’t get what he wants and neither does Sherlock. Mummy and John’s mother talk outside, taking John’s sister with them, leaving Sherlock alone with John. Mycroft and Greg have also left, after getting a look at Sherlock’s bond mate. Sherlock can hear Greg laughing in the next room and he wants nothing more than to slide out of Father’s seat and hit the two of them with Father’s umbrella.

“I don’t like you,” Sherlock tells John after a while. He’s dreadfully bored and he doesn’t want to look at John anymore. “You can go away now.”

“I don’t like you either. Besides, you’re only a little kid. You’re like Harry.”

“And you remind me of Mycroft. Also, I don’t want to kiss a troll.” John turns a funny colour but doesn’t say anything. Sherlock looks at him then decides to annoy John even more to see how red his face will become. By the time the grown ups arrive, John looks just like an apple. It makes Sherlock grin.

Mummy claps her hands and beams at him. It's the smile she makes when she does something Sherlock doesn't agree with like taking Teddy and telling the maid to wash him, or when she buys Sherlock another awful suit. “Well, that’s settled then. We’ll have you two bonded next month.”

Sherlock immediately stops smiling.


	2. An Engagement Party

His suit is a silky navy blue that his mother claims brings out his eyes. His hair has been gelled back with enough product that when Harry rapped her fist on his skull, it sounded like she was knocking on wood. John feels weird. He hasn’t dressed like this since Aunt Margo’s wedding. Well, his mother did point out that this is kind of like a wedding. An engagement, actually.

 

John has realized back in the car that this is how people will know him from now on. John Watson engaged to Sherlock Holmes.

 

It’s as if his life has turned into a bad movie.

 

Sherlock is six-years-old. Six! It makes John feel as sleazy as odd Mr Campbell who’s always bringing young Omegas and Betas to his office. He didn’t even want to go through with this but his mum told him that he’s been promised to Sherlock since Sherlock was born. It’s his father’s fault for being friends with Mr Holmes in the first place. But John can’t blame him right now, not when it’s only been six months since his father got shot in the war.

 

John eyes himself in the mirror once more and scowls. His friends will mock him from now on. It doesn’t happen often, these engagements. Usually only posh families do it, and had his family not had anything to do with the Holmeses, then John could have lived life unattached if he wanted. It has its perks, though what they are his mum won’t say. He’s heard a bit from his cousins, though, so John has the idea that it’s got something to do about him not getting involved with anyone without his mother knowing.

 

There’s a knock on the door and Greg, Sherlock’s brother’s Omega, comes in. He’s wearing a charcoal suit and a skinny black tie with a pattern of tiny skulls. “You look like you’re going to a funeral,” John points out even as the word ‘funeral’ makes his gut twinge. He remembers a long black box, and two soldiers folding a British flag. He also remembers the sickly smell of lilies and how, despite their fragrance, he could only smell death.

 

“Kind of is.” Greg rolls his eyes. It’s a habit of his. Greg with his dark hair gelled into small spikes. Greg with his constant gum chewing and his swearing. John thinks Greg is the coolest person he’s ever met. “When I got bonded to My I was Sherlock’s age so I don’t remember much about it. But because of you two, I’m meeting the extended Holmes family again. It’s a nightmare.”

 

Greg flops on the couch, making John grin. It’s strange that he’s much closer to Greg than he is to Sherlock. John’s spent more time with the older boy than with Sherlock in his first five visits. He has thought more than once that he’d rather be bonded to Greg than to Sherlock. But Greg’s bonded to Mycroft, creepy Mycroft who always looks at John like he’s one of those specimens floating in formaldehyde in his school’s laboratory. They’re so different, Greg and Mycroft, but they get along well.

 

John doesn’t think it will happen with him and Sherlock, though. They might be different but at least Greg and Mycroft are close to each other’s age. John has absolutely nothing in common with Sherlock who, at six, is already reading Homer’s _Illiad._ In Greek.

 

“Where’s Mycroft?” John actually looks over his shoulder, as if Mycroft might suddenly spring out of the ground and appear behind him. It’s impossible but if there’s something John knows best about Mycroft, it’s that he can make anything work.

 

“They brought the cake outside,” Greg explains. “It’s _huge_. You should come out and see it. Besides, there are already people out there.”

 

John winces. “How…how are we going to do it again?”

 

“It’s just an injection, John. It’s a little painful, though—But not that bad!” Greg adds when a stricken look crosses John’s face, “It’s just like going to the doctor’s.”

 

“Marks?”

 

“Tiny bump here.” Greg stands up and turns around. John can see a small, dark bump at the centre of Greg’s nape. John’s face falls.

 

“That looks like it hurt.”

 

“Well…”

 

But Greg never gets to finish his sentence because there’s another knock. Mycroft sweeps in, dressed in a suit almost identical to Greg’s, only he has a bowtie instead of a tie and there aren’t any skulls on it. “Outside now,” he tells John, “Father wants to meet you.”

 

John has never met Sherlock’s father even once, but he’s met the Holmes brothers so John knows that he shouldn’t keep the man waiting. He puts on a brave face and silently tells himself not to panic as he follows Mycroft down the hallway. Greg met him and he seems fine. And the man was friends with his father. Surely, he won’t be mean to John?

 

They’ve put up a tent outside, large enough to accommodate the tree where Sherlock supposedly fell. The tree is now decorated with fairy lights that make John’s eyes hurt if he looks too long. Beneath it is the buffet table, laden with the most expensive foods and the cake Greg was telling him about. It is indeed the mother of all cakes, a white five-layer monster with chocolate shavings. John catches Mycroft eyeing it longingly before he regains his composure and drags John to the fountain. His mother is already there, talking to a tall man with Mycroft’s reddish-brown hair and Sherlock’s very pale (and extremely creepy) eyes.

 

The man’s eyebrows lift when he sees John and John fidgets and fights the urge to flatten his already very flat hair. “Why you’re the spitting image of Jonathan!” he cries. His voice is very deep and suited for ordering people about. John stands up even straighter.

 

“This is Sherlock’s father, dear,” his mother says even though she doesn’t have to. He’s obviously the man who had a hand in creating Sherlock and Mycroft. There’s that intelligent gleam in his eyes and that tautness in his spine, as if he’s waiting to pounce on someone. Very much like a cat, actually. Physically, he’s more Sherlock than Mycroft. When John looks at him, he imagines he can see every single thought that crosses the man’s mind. And currently, all are of him.

 

“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” John lies as he shakes the man’s hand rather solemnly.  

 

“And you as well.” John freezes when Mr Holmes grabs his shoulders and turns him around here and there until John feels as if he’s about to throw up. “You’re quite serious, aren’t you?”

 

John has been told this many times already and frankly, he’s getting tired of it. Of course he’s serious. He’s spent most of his life acting as the man of the house, and now that his father’s dead, the job is a permanent fixture in his life. But he doesn’t tell Mr Holmes this so he just shrugs and plasters on a smile that he hopes is sincere.

 

Mr Holmes claps his shoulder with enough force to make his knees buckle. “I can already tell you’ll be good for my son. Speaking of which, where is the boy?”

 

“Hiding most likely,” Mycroft offers.

 

“Well, go and fetch him. We’ll have this over with in a few minutes.”

 

It’s then that John becomes aware of the doctor hanging around the buffet table. He has a black kit with him. The knowledge that there’s a huge needle inside makes him feel queasy. He wants Greg to tell him that it will be alright but the older boy has disappeared in the crowd. When John finds him next, he’s dancing with Harry, making her spin so fast her dress billows up her knees.

 

They’re obviously enjoying themselves and John doesn’t have the heart to pull Harry away. His sister has been feeling neglected of late. She’s neither an Alpha or an Omega, and though John knows that his mother loves them both, he gets more attention because of his status and because of Sherlock. Male Omegas are quite rare in society. His mother tells him that he’ll appreciate this when he’s older but so far, all John can see in life with Sherlock is him dealing with the sulky brat.

 

John searches the crowd for his relatives, even one of his dumb cousins, but they’ve been swallowed by all the Holmeses. They’re outnumbered here, even though nearly all of John’s relatives came as many of them had never seen a pre-bonding ceremony. Sherlock’s relatives all talk in posh voices, whether they’re talking in English or not. John has no idea what the other languages are, but he suspects that the old woman who approached him a while ago was talking to him in French. Soon enough, his head begins to hurt from looking at them, all sharp cheekbones and blue, blue eyes so he takes a seat at table occupied by his Uncle Fred who is again, too drunk to be aware of his surroundings.

 

He straightens when the music stops and the guests stop dancing. A hand rests on his shoulder and John looks up to see his mother smiling at him encouragingly.

 

 “Come on, Johhny,” she says and she takes him by the hand and leads him to a small table. The doctor is there, as are Sherlock and the rest of his family. Greg, who’s with his father, gives him a thumbs up that John ignores. His heart begins to beat in a frantic rhythm at the sight of the injection in the doctor’s gloved hands. He’s not afraid of getting shots but that needle is _huge._

 

Everyone has their eyes on him. John sees Aunt Leah who waves at him encouragingly. “Couldn’t we have done this inside?” he asks his mother but when she shakes her head, John knows that all the decisions are made by Sherlock’s family.

 

They make him take a seat next to Sherlock who, to John’s annoyance, looks quite calm. He’s dressed all in white and it somehow makes his eyes look even stranger. His hair looks like it’s been brushed back but Sherlock, due to his incessant need to be mobile, has made a few curls stick out slightly. He really is young, too young in John’s opinion. His feet don’t even reach the ground. They sway to-and-fro as the doctor rubs alcohol on the back of his neck then does the same to John.

 

When the needle pierces his skin, all John can thinks of is how Greg lied to him because it _hurts._ It feels as if his neck is on fire and that the needle is four times as thick and three times as long. John grits his teeth and grips the edge of his seat as the doctor draws his blood slowly. Beside him, John hears Sherlock wince.

 

The needle leaves his skin, only to be replaced with a smaller one. John can’t see it but he can definitely feel Sherlock’s blood entering the tiny wound. It doesn’t ease the burn but it doesn’t add any pain either. John loosens his grip and waits until it’s finished.

 

“Ouch,” John supplies, making the doctor laugh. The guests clap then go back to dancing.

 

“Feel any different?”

 

“My neck hurts.”

 

He turns to Sherlock to see his reaction and his stomach drops. Sherlock, to John’s surprise, is crying. It isn’t the fake crying either, the one John unfortunately fell victim and got in trouble for when he teased Sherlock for his stupid bear. His face is red and he’s taking deep, stuttering breaths. But then John reminds himself that Sherlock, for all his coldness and surprising intelligence, is still a little kid. And that shot was quite painful.

 

The urge to make him stop crying hits John hard. He wants to reach over and give Sherlock a hug the way he does when Harry’s hurt, but Sherlock’s mother gets there before him. She gathers him in her arms and whisks him away to the house.

 

For a while John just sits there until Mycroft and Greg saunter up to him. Greg is sweaty from dancing while Mycroft smells a little like red wine and frosting. “May I be the first to offer you congratulations?” Mycroft says in his pompous air. “You’re part of the family now.”

 

John wrinkles his nose. He’s not sure he even wants to be in this family. He’s already decided that all of the Holmeses are strange. But a part of him wants to go inside the house and check if Sherlock is okay. John fights it and turns to Greg. “You lied,” he accuses. He rubs his neck then winces when the contact makes his skin sting. “It hurt.”

 

Greg shrugs. “Oh, well, I can’t remember much. I do remember bawling, though. Right, My?”

 

Mycroft’s lips twitch, though not in a smile. “I did not.”

 

“Yes, you did. There were tears in your eyes—I _saw_. Then we kind of clung to each other and cried our heads off. I think my mother even took photographs.”

 

Mycroft does that lip twitch thing again and it takes John a while to realize that Mycroft looks murderous. Greg notices and laughs and the intimidating expression on Mycroft’s face is slowly replaced by fondness.

 

“Well now that you’ve done the blood exchange Sherlock is now your sole responsibility.” Mycroft shakes his hand. There’s just enough pressure to indicate the unspoken words of _if you do anything to hurt him, I swear I’ll beat you up._

 

It is then that John comes up with an excuse to slip away. He meets a few more people who shake his hand and offer him congratulations. Several of Sherlock’s cousins ask (well, actually force) him to dance with them so by the time Sherlock reappears, John is out of breath, and his once very neat hair is now a messy blond mop on his head.

 

“Alright?”

 

“Piss off.” Sherlock’s eyes and nose are red and he’s clutching that weird bear of his. He doesn’t look too upset but he’s still sniffling every now and then. John feels a little sorry for him and doesn’t even have the heart to admonish him for his lack of manners.

 

“Can I see?”

 

Sherlock scowls at him but obliges. The red dot at the centre of the back of his neck is a shocking red against all that white skin. John knows better than to touch it so he just moves his hand higher, ruffles those dark curls, then lightly presses a kiss against the wound. It’s not like he’s never done it before. Sherlock really is a bit like Harry and his sister has never minded it when John presses his lips against her wounds. It’s something his father always did before he went away and it’s become a bit of an instinct.

 

Sherlock doesn’t seem to appreciate it though because when he turns around, he pushes John to the ground, to the amusement of the people around them. Sherlock’s mother is aghast.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

“Gross!” Sherlock yells before he runs off once more. He’s dropped his bee/bear. John gets up, takes the bear, then hides it under the buffet table. He might be stuck with Sherlock but John’s going to make it clear early on that Sherlock is not, and never will be, the boss of him.

 

John gives up after an hour, though, when Sherlock begins another tantrum and upsets the buffet table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter skips to them at age eleven and fourteen.


	3. A Photograph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: removed the sketches because I will make a compilation thingy of my notes.

“So what time this Tuesday?”

 

“…”

 

“I can always say I have a meeting.”

 

“…”

 

“Violet knows. It’s not as if she wasn’t expecting this. I’m just…well, the children.”

 

“…”

 

“Eleven and eighteen. Mycroft knows, I think, but Sherlock…he’s still too young.”

 

“…”

 

“Yes. Yes, I love you as well.”

 

There’s that smile again, the one that makes Father’s eyes light up, the one Sherlock hasn’t seen for a very long time. He curls his hand on the doorframe and dares to peek even more. His father is facing the window and has his back to him. He’s laughing.

 

Sherlock hates it.

 

“Ah, no, no, we really are fine.” His father turns around and moves to his desk. Sherlock slides to the right so that if his father were to look in his direction, he’d barely notice the bright blue eye watching him.

 

“How are you?”

 

Sherlock looks past him, to the skull on the shelf. The skull has always been his father’s most prized possession and is even more valuable than the Stradivarius Sherlock has been longing to get his hands on. Who he was and how he died, no one exactly knows. The many rumours going around about his family says that the skull was his great grandfather, but Sherlock knows the man died in France of a blow to the head. The skull has been worn smooth and is undamaged but for a few chips around the eye sockets. Whoever he was (for it is a ‘he’, a Caucasian male around forty years and who passed away approximately sixty-three years ago), he certainly hadn’t died of a blunt weapon to the head.

 

The skull houses secrets, his father’s secrets. Sherlock has spied on him before and his father never fails to glance at it with a nervous expression whenever he’s on the phone.

 

Sherlock wants in on whatever secret it is.

 

He moves away just as his father laughs heartily. A maid passes by him and gives him a scathing look. He’s not allowed in the west wing, not since he burned a hole through the Persian rug at the centre of the office.

 

“Off with you now, Master Sherlock,” she says and even has the audacity to flick the feather duster in her hand at his chest. She pauses, her nose wrinkled, then stares at him. Sherlock glares at her.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing.” With a shake of her head, she moves to the drawing room. Sherlock sniffs his armpits once the door is closed. He catches a whiff of his natural scent but it’s still faint, suppressed by the latest of his experiments. It’s been the most successful so far. He slides the tiny vial out of his pocket and into his palm then dabs a bit at each side of his neck. His scent fades completely.

 

The concoction needs replacing so Sherlock heads to the stairs, unnoticed by Greg who is laughing and towing Mycroft into the guest room. His brother pauses at the doorway and Sherlock quickly flattens himself against the wall and slides to the floor in a crouch.

 

Mycroft moves on. Grinning, Sherlock scrambles up and slides down the banister in his excitement. Finally, he thinks. He’s the first one to have ever created a scent suppressant. Forget perfumes that can make you smell like whatever gender you wish. He’s made one that can make you practically invisible. Him! At eleven-years-old! Forget boarding school. He can sell this to the government.

 

He takes the pamphlet out of his pocket as he walks to the pond. It’s creased and sweat-stained but Sherlock has already memorized all the important details. It’s the best school in the country. The only problem is it’s a school for Alphas and Betas.

 

Idiots. He hates how sexist some people are. So what if he’s an Omega? He’s a genius and far more valuable than any of the other students in that school.

 

There’s no one else outside other than the old gardener, Jules, who pays no attention to him. Jules won’t tell; he only cares about trimming the hedges, so Sherlock climbs the oak tree and settles on the branch hanging directly over the pond. It’s the most convenient place to think. It is never too hot and never too cold and the tree is high enough for Sherlock to see anyone approaching the driveway. The wind always passes through this spot and with it comes all the scents Sherlock has become so familiar with. It’s gotten stronger over the summer, his sense of smell, to the point that his mother has become increasingly worrisome over him. It’s not normal, not until the heats begin, and god knows what will happen to him when he finally hits puberty. He might lose his mind.

 

_I’ll just invent something._

 

He slips his hand inside his pocket and curls his fingers around the tiny vial once more. It has to be enough to pull some strings. It’s not like there’s going to be a problem. He has a pre-bond; it’s not as if anyone will make a move on him with John’s scent mingled with his own, albeit faintly.

 

Speaking of John…

 

Sherlock has already spotted the teal sedan which slowly making its way through the gates. Inwardly, Sherlock groans. He doesn’t like John and Sherlock doubts he ever will, bond or no bond. He hates that John has to spend every summer with him. John is boring and stupid and your typical Alpha. There’s nothing remarkable about him at all and Sherlock curses the doctor who stated that, by blood, they’re the most compatible match.

 

The world is clearly run by idiots.

 

Sherlock sniffs himself again and is pleased to find that he still smells of nothing. He’s going to have to lose it, though. John and his mother are already getting out of the car and Sherlock’s own has gotten out of the house to greet them.

 

Bracing himself, Sherlock hooks his legs around the branch and lets himself dangle off it. Best get it over with, he thinks, then lets himself fall straight into the pond.

 

* * *

 

 

Despite what everyone seems to think, Mycroft isn’t omniscient. It is impossible to know everything on the face of the earth. For example, Mycroft knows and practically breathes statistics and politics but he does not—nor does he ever want to—know how the Spice Girls came to be. He knows a bit of pop culture as society ingrains it, and Mycroft, unlike Sherlock, considers himself a part of society.

 

He also knows that when you and your boyfriend for four years and fiancé for eleven finally, well, do it, your significant other is not supposed to laugh.

 

Greg is laughing, actually laughing, and the flush of arousal has been replaced by amusement. He’s been laughing for nearly fifteen point three seconds, enough time for Mycroft to slip on his shirt and boxers. Greg, however, is still as naked as the day he was born and didn’t even bother to slip under the sheets to cover his nudity.

 

“That,” Greg wheezes, “was horrible!”

 

Mycroft has never viewed sex as a pleasurable act. He has always seen it in a clinical way, an act done for both bonding and procreation. Still, Mycroft feels an odd twinge in his gut.

 

Greg looks at him, tears in his eyes and that wide grin on his face. “Oh don’t look like that, My. We were both horrible. You made noises, I made noises, and it was sticky and sweaty and I think you may have bruised my ribs.”

 

Greg laughs again then sighs quite dramatically and goes very still. He looks at the ceiling and says, “My arse hurts.”

 

“I should point out it was your idea,” Mycroft says.

 

“Not a good late birthday present then?”

 

Greg leans to the side and scrambles for the cigarettes by the lamp. The scratches on his back are barely noticeable with his tan. Mycroft feels strange looking at them, like there are two Mycrofts, the one that was on top of Greg just a while ago, and the one looking at Greg right now with distaste as the scent of cloves fills the room.

 

He hears a clicking sound and quickly tells Greg to get under the covers.

 

“What?”

 

Too late. A drowned-looking Sherlock bounds in, a hairpin in one hand and a pamphlet in the other. “Shit!” Greg yelps. He pulls the duvet over him and glares at Sherlock. “Ever heard of privacy, kid?”

 

“Oh don’t be uncharacteristically shy, Greg,” Sherlock tells him, “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you naked. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Your penis is surprisingly large for a—”

 

“We are not talking about my dick, Sherlock Holmes!” Greg stares at him, affronted. “And when were the other times?!”

 

As expected, Sherlock ignores him and takes a seat at the foot of the bed. He stuffs the pin in the pocket of his trousers then shoves the pamphlet in Mycroft’s lap. “Father never listens to me,” he says, “I need you to propose the idea to him.”

 

“Boarding school?” Mycroft flips it open. “Sherlock, this is a boarding school for Alphas and Betas.”

 

“They allow special cases and a pre-bond _is_ a special case.”

 

“You do know that boarding schools don’t accept Omegas under the age of fifteen. And this isn’t an exclusive school.”

 

“I said I’m a special case. Must I always repeat myself?” Sherlock rolls his eyes then makes a grab for the pack of cigarettes in Greg’s hand. Greg quickly shoves him away, curses his insatiable curiosity, then puts out his own cigarette just in case.

 

“I take it John’s here, then? You’re acting like a drowned cat again.” Greg sits up so that the sheet falls on his lap. “Well, you jumped in the pond again, didn’t you? And you always act like a cat anyway. _More_ like a drowned cat, then.”

 

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “Hate him,” he mutters.

 

“Where is he?”

 

“Talking to Father.”

 

Sherlock looks at him and there’s something, something about his gaze that tells Mycroft he knows. Of course, Sherlock knows about the other woman. It didn’t surprise Mycroft when Father told him. His parents have never been close to each other. Not a good match, apparently, married to preserve wealth rather than to create a strong bond, and it’s not really that uncommon. Their father is wrong to think Sherlock will never catch up and even more wrong to worry about Sherlock’s well-being. Sherlock doesn’t give a damn about sentimentalities and its Mycroft’s fault, really, for telling a seven-year-old Sherlock who had just been beaten up by an older kid that caring is not, and never will be, an advantage.

 

* * *

 

 

Even though John has known the man for half a decade, he still doesn’t feel comfortable around Siger Holmes. He’s too much like Sherlock and whenever John looks at him, he feels like he’s looking at Sherlock thirty years from now, cold and calculating and always staring at John with those colourless eyes. The thought that this is what the person he’s supposed to end up with will be like does nothing to appease the anxiety in John’s gut.

 

“You’ve grown.”

 

John shrugs. If Mr Holmes is talking of his height then John should be very insulted as he’s still too bloody short. Outwards, yes. He plays rugby now and John knows he looks good. The Betas in his school and the Omegas in the school across theirs always glance at him appraisingly, and some were even bold enough to slip him their numbers despite knowing that he’s already promised to someone. So far, he’s the only one in their school who has a pre-bond. When before John was insulted for it, he’s now greatly envied. After several classes of sex education and when puberty hit, John’s peers now think he’s absolutely lucky to get an Omega for a bond mate, especially a male one.

 

“My brother says they’re really good in bed,” one of his friends told him over lunch. At fourteen, at that age where the pheromones truly kick in, all everyone talks about is sex, sex, and more sex. Sometimes it truly pisses John off when his peers ask him to show Sherlock to them or to let them see a photograph.

 

“He’s not a bloody show dog! And he’s a kid, you sick freaks!”

 

Omegas are supposed to be alluring but John has yet to find Sherlock so. At eleven, Sherlock is a few pounds shy from being skin and bones. He’s small for his age and all knobbly knees and sharp elbows. He’s too pale, to the point that sometimes he’s mistaken for someone stricken with leukaemia, and his curly black hair hangs too heavily over his forehead.

 

And his attitude! Sherlock is a spoiled brat and highly demanding. John remembers when they were younger and Sherlock, who always forced John to play pirates with him, would fake cry if John didn’t do what he wanted. He creeps John out with his weird experiments (dear god that time with the snakes was absolute hell) and the way he can tell what you’ve been doing just by looking at you. 

 

He’s a kid and Sherlock’s father has to understand. He needs to have a life outside of Sherlock.

 

“So what you’re saying,” Sherlock’s father says, snapping John’s attention back to him, “is you want to go on dates like your peers?”

 

John feels himself flush.

 

“Is there a specific person or is this just for experimental purposes?”

 

“The last,” John mumbles. It’s his friend Chad’s fault. He’s the first one among John’s friends to get a girlfriend and soon enough, everyone else is doing it, everyone but for John. He doesn’t know if it’s allowed. He’d ask Greg but it seems that Greg has never dated anyone other than Mycroft.

 

Again, John shudders at the thought of Greg and Mycroft being more than just Greg and Mycroft.

 

“Ah.” An odd expression sits on Mr Homes’ face. “Yes, well, you have to talk to Sherlock about this but no doubt he’ll agree to it. You’re not exactly fond of each other, are you?”

 

It’s an understatement. John remembers all too well that time Sherlock tried to push him down the stairs as John was leaving.

 

“I do not blame you. The age gap, though small, feels large at this age and you’re a teenage boy. You’ll want to try things.”

 

“So…I can?”

 

“Yes. It’s only normal but you must promise not to get attached with anyone.” An odd expression sits on his face and John fidgets. “As for Sherlock there’s—”

 

Whatever it is, Mr Holmes doesn’t get to finish because all of a sudden there’s a shrill ringing in John’s ears. Outside the office, John can hear people yelling and running. A maid bursts in the room, an irritated expression on her face as she says, “Master Sherlock has set something on fire again.”

 

Mr Holmes sighs wearily and John feels sorry for him. “What is it?”

 

“The 19th Century tapestry of Alexander the Great.”

 

Holmeses don’t swear, or if they do, then they do so in the most silent way possible. John can easily translate the fury in Mr Holmes’ face in the most appalling words in the English language. “Stay here,” he tells John then quickly sweeps out of the room.

 

John waits for ten minutes before he gets up and stretches his legs. This isn’t the first time he’s been left in the office alone. Sherlock is always doing something that gets him into trouble.

 

The skull grins at John disturbingly. Only the Holmeses can turn a human skull into a decorative item. John moves towards it and brushes his finger against the dusty cranium. The skull is smooth and cool to the touch. He prods it then jumps back when the skull tilts backwards. A few things slide out of it and drop to the floor. Heart pounding, John quickly gets to his knees and gathers the items.

 

“Don’t.”

 

Sherlock is standing in the doorway. In a flash he’s at John’s side. John can smell smoke on his clothes but nothing else.

 

The Alpha part of John’s brain takes over. He presses his nose against Sherlock’s nape. He can smell smoke and detergent but that faint honey scent that John has identified as Sherlock’s isn’t there at all. “You don’t smell,” John says as he pulls back.

 

“Experiment,” Sherlock mutters. He pushes a few things aside, a determined expression on his face, one that is replaced by something akin to shock. John looks at what he has in his hand.

 

It’s an old, dog-eared photograph of a boy around John’s age. He’s grinning at the camera, one hand up to push his strawberry-blond hair out of his eyes. Eyes which John realize are just as strange as Sherlock’s own.

 

There is a flash of…something on Sherlock’s face. Then all of a sudden he is smiling. It’s a strange smile, one that doesn’t sit well on his boyish face. It’s a smile that disturbs John slightly.

 

“Clean that up,” Sherlock orders before he runs out of the room, taking the picture with him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Mycroft and Lestrade are out of character, that's because I actually don't ship them and I have never read a Mystrade fan fic (feel free to convert me, though. seriously. I think I've read all the internet has to offer of john and sherlock) but I felt it necessary in this story to do so to compare their relationship with the one john and sherlock have. As for the person who asked if I update often, well, I'm not entirely sure. This isn't the only Sherlock fan fic I'm working on (this was supposed to be a one-shot! what is wrong with me??? why must I always extend?)


	4. Cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft tries to keep Sherlock in check.

Mycroft was fourteen when he found out. He remembers that day clearly, down to the smallest details. He remembers that, as he returned to the house, he was slightly red-faced from having just kissed Greg for the first time. He hadn’t expected it; he seldom does when Greg's concerned. The other boy had run back shortly after bidding Mycroft goodbye and quickly kissed him before running back to his parents’ car.

 

It was Sherlock he saw first when he entered. Body tense, head down, shoulders squared as he walked past Mycroft. They were all wrong and Mycroft was immediately brought down from his high. He pushed all thoughts of Greg aside and grabbed Sherlock’s arm, forcing him to turn around.

 

“What’s wrong— _oh, Sherlock_.”

 

There was blood running down his brother’s nose and chin and there was a dark bruise directly below his left eye. His hair had been cut roughly by a pair of scissors. Sharp, Mycroft noted when he saw the deep cut on the top of Sherlock’s right ear. But it wasn’t what worried Mycroft. It was Sherlock’s eyes. The usual gleam of eagerness in them had faded and Sherlock looked lost and confused and for the first time, quite his age.

 

It explained things: Sherlock’s determination not to go to school, that stiff smile he put on when he went through the gates, the lashing out when Greg jokingly tried to push him in the pond, that look of fear when Mummy told him he’d been invited to a classmate’s birthday party. Mycroft pushed the sleeves of his coat up to his elbows and saw the bruises, some old, some new.

 

Stupid. He should have noticed.

 

“I ran,” Sherlock said, his voice off. It explained why he was home earlier than expected.

 

“I’ll tell Father.” It really was bad; Sherlock didn’t even bother to stop him. Mycroft touched his head. Mummy was better at these things but she was at their aunt’s place. Still, Mycroft thought that this wasn’t something he should bother dealing with alone. “Go to your room.”

 

Father was in his office, talking to someone on the phone. Mycroft had no idea why but instead of knocking immediately, he pressed his ear against the door. He could hear Father was laughing and saying things. Father was telling someone he loved them and Mycroft backed away from the door, heart pounding, his hand still raised. Slowly, he dropped his arm to his side then walked away.

 

Sherlock was seated on his bed when Mycroft entered his room, sniffing and rubbing his eyes with a blood-caked fist. “Stop that,” Mycroft ordered and for once, Sherlock actually listened to him.

 

“Okay.” Sherlock drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. He looked so achingly small that Mycroft had to avert his eyes. He could feel a lump in his throat and he swallowed thickly. He hadn’t cried in years and he certainly wouldn’t do so in front of Sherlock.

 

“They don’t like me. They say I’m weird and everyone hates me.” Sherlock’s voice was hollow and Mycroft remembered himself at this age, struggling to fit in, learning that the best way to cope with it was to look like he wasn’t better than the others. But Sherlock wasn’t Mycroft. Even then, he knew that Sherlock would never learn to stay under the radar. He was too proud, too smart for his own good.

 

“Is Father not coming to talk to me?”

 

He’d tensed once more, his expression guarded, but Mycroft could see the anxiety threatening to show. So Mycroft did something he would later find was something he often did when Sherlock was concerned.

 

He lied.

 

“Father stepped out. I’m sorry.”

 

“Oh.” Sherlock frowned but Mycroft could see the tension disappear from his small body. “He’ll be mad. He always says I’m too weak.”

 

_You’re not. You don’t pretend to be someone you’re not._

 

“You shouldn’t care what they say.” Sherlock looked at him. Mycroft averted his eyes. “Caring’s not an advantage.”

 

* * *

 

Mycroft is eighteen when Sherlock finds out, not only about the other woman, but also about something Mycroft hadn’t even dared think of. Sherlock was, and is, his top priority, and between him and his relationship with Greg, Mycroft hasn’t thought much about their father’s affair. But when Sherlock brings him the photograph, looking far too pleased with himself, Mycroft finds that he can’t think of anything else.

 

He sets the picture down and looks at Sherlock for signs of distress. But his brother has that smug smile on his face, the one he wears when he’s discovered something to his advantage. It clicks before Sherlock even says it.

 

“No.”

 

“But, Mycroft,” Sherlock whines and Mycroft immediately grits his teeth. “It’s perfect!”

 

“You’re not blackmailing Father just so he’ll allow you to go to boarding school.” Mycroft pulls a drawer open and drops the picture on top of his old research papers. He doesn’t bother locking it. Sherlock can pick locks faster than paid burglars.

 

It isn’t the end of the argument. Sherlock is now standing in a way that makes him seem taller. Too small, too thin, Mycroft notices with a wince. His brother looks as if a gust of wind can blow him away. It’s no wonder people often stare at him when they pass by, then glare at Mycroft accusingly.

 

_I try. He’s just too stubborn._

 

“But it’s not allowed,” Sherlock argues. “It’s the law—I know it, Mycroft, I read about it last night. You’re not allowed to have children outside of a bond.”

 

“The picture was taken thirteen years ago. Mummy and Father wouldn’t have been married at the time. He’s a child out of wedlock.”

 

Sherlock snorts. “Mummy and Father had a _pre-bond_ , which, weak as it may be is still a bond so Father broke the law.” He grins, hands raised, and slumps back in his chair. “It’s brilliant! It’s like Christmas come early!”

 

Mycroft can see through it easily. Beneath the glee is a burning desire for revenge. Sherlock and Father have never liked each other and bonding Sherlock to John made matters much worse. They’ve always had Alphas in the family until Sherlock. Father thinks he’s too weak while Sherlock will do anything to rile Father up. Mycroft knows it’s one of the reasons why Sherlock dislikes him. It’s always him who gets praised, him who gets Father’s attention. Sometimes Mycroft wants to turn Father around and make him face Sherlock and say _I’m not the only genius in the family!_

 

But Father never listens. It’s ironic that in spite of their hatred for each other, they’re equally stubborn.

 

Mycroft shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but no.”

 

“You just don’t want me to be happy!”

 

“Stop being so dramatic!” Mycroft counts to ten before he continues. “Think about what will happen if you tell Father you know his secret.”

 

“Mummy knows about it. I heard him say. And he knows you know. What difference will it make if he knows that I know, too?”

 

Nothing. It’s been going on for too long and Mycroft knows that, even though their father has never been someone you’d call affectionate, he’s still capable of loving someone. And clearly he loves this woman and this brother of Mycroft and Sherlock, even more than he does them. And if Mummy and Father were to have their bond severed, nothing much will change, only now Sherlock will have more freedom in the house. But it’s the idea, the fact that Sherlock doesn’t seem the least perturbed by it, that bothers Mycroft. It’s not healthy and Mycroft has to admit that it makes him a little afraid. Not for him, but for Sherlock. He’s never been normal but this is far from being a little strange.

 

“Aren’t you upset?”

 

“No.”

 

Mycroft has to admit that he’s annoyed as well. How can Sherlock brush it off so easily when it bothered Mycroft for days until he realized that it was normal? Not socially accepted, of course, but his father’s not the first person to have an affair out of his bond.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Why would I be?”

 

That’s it.

 

“Out,” Mycroft hisses. Sherlock looks at him and Mycroft sighs. “Go get dressed already and see if John’s ready as well. You can’t be late to your own recital.”

 

Sherlock huffs but obliges. “I hate you,” he mutters at the threshold before he slams the door shut with enough force that the mirror beside it actually tilts. He doesn’t mean it. Mycroft knows it. In his own twisted way, Sherlock loves him. He doesn’t like him but he loves him in a you're-my-brother-and-you’re-smart-enough-to-understand-me way.

 

Mycroft smells the earthy scent he’s come to identify as Greg’s before he even has time to knock on the door. “Come in,” he says and the door swings open.

 

Mycroft blinks.

 

“What did you do with your hair?”

 

Greg shrugs but there’s a guilty look on his face. “It was my friend Chuck.”  Mycroft settles back in his mind and conjures up an image of this Chuck. Oh yes, Beta, tall, skinny, shaved head, tattoo of piano keys twisted around his arm, Scottish accent but really an Irish man. Sings—Greg’s back up and lead guitar. “He insisted, you know? Does it look that bad?”

 

In a charcoal suit and dove grey tie, yes, it looks horrid. Greg’s hair which is usually gelled in small spikes now lays flat on his head but it doesn’t look any better because it’s no longer the dark brown colour Mycroft is so used to seeing. No, now, it’s a bright blue, the kind that makes your eyes hurt if you stare too long.

 

Mycroft’s eye begins to twitch.

 

“It’s bright now but Chuck says it will get darker overtime.” He laughs nervously. “I mean, I know, blue hair and a suit and tie? Horrendous. But in my usual get up—it fits.”

 

Mycroft frowns and looks away. It’s not his place. Greg can do whatever he wants. He shouldn’t say anything. He shouldn’t…

 

“It’s horrid, Greg. Why would you allow someone to do that? You’ll ruin your hair if you keep doing things like this.”

 

Ah. Mycroft clamps his mouth shut as soon as he sees Greg’s face darken. “It’s my bloody hair, Mycroft, and it’s my decision,” Greg mutters to him and Mycroft thinks, dear god, not today. They’ve had this argument countless of times (the cigarettes, the motorbike, Greg’s taste in music, Greg’s friends, his band, the leather jacket—alright, scratch that last one) already and now is not the time. His brother just told him he’d like to blackmail Father a while ago and Mycroft just found out that Sherlock’s not his only sibling and that he’s not the eldest in the family.

 

“I apologize.” Mycroft feels about forty again. Sherlock, damn him.

 

“Sherlock getting to you then?” Greg grins when Mycroft looks at him sharply. “The brat nearly knocked me down the stairs when he passed me by. So what’s it this time? No experimenting on the neighbour’s pet? No stealing things from the pharmacy?”

 

“Father.”

 

“Ah.”

 

Greg doesn’t say anything but his brow is furrowed. He understands how Sherlock feels about their Father better than Mycroft. “That sexist thing again?” he says with a smile but there’s no humour in it.

 

It’s not that exactly. But Mycroft nods anyway. No one should know other than him and Sherlock, and if Sherlock is to be believed, Mummy. And they shouldn’t know anything other than the main thing. Mycroft can already feel his curiosity and he knows that it’s practically burning Sherlock inside to know more about this brother of theirs. They’re intelligent, him and Sherlock, and Mycroft knows that Sherlock will want to see if this brother of theirs is smarter than either of them. He’ll want a challenge, someone to test his boundaries, someone to play mind games with him.

 

In other words, someone else who understands.

 

Greg doesn’t push it. He just smiles at Mycroft, that small smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle and reminds Mycroft of the first time Greg kissed him, blushing furiously as he darted up to press his mouth against Mycroft’s before running off and—to Mycroft’s amusement—actually skipping halfway.

 

Greg leans forward and Mycroft is kissing him again. It’s too quick, just like their first kiss, and Mycroft sighs because he both loves and hates that memory.

 

* * *

 

John smells of coffee and toast and jam and omelettes. Sherlock presses his nose inside John’s palm and takes a deep sniff. He gets dirt, soap, and the mouldy pages of one of the books in the library. John’s natural scent is grass, freshly mown, and when Sherlock closes his eyes and truly pays attention, he can smell himself as well, that strange sweet scent John says reminds him of honey. It’s gotten stronger, the smell of grass, and Sherlock thinks that his will too when he’s older. He drops John’s hands and steps back. John looks at him, bemused.

 

“You really have no concept of personal space, don’t you?” He clenches his hands then relaxes them. “What was that about?”

 

“Experiment. Your scent’s changed.”

 

“Puberty,” John explains and Sherlock grimaces in the way children do whenever sex is mentioned. Sherlock’s not bothered by it. He knows about sex, knows how it works, and knows all too well that he’s expected to have sex with John when he’s much older (much too horrid, failure to delete). It’s just that word. _Puberty._ Atrocious, really. Sherlock remembers the speakers in health class. When you’re older your body will go through changes, your scent will become stronger, Omegas will have heats, Alphas become more dominant, etc.

 

Should he find John alluring? To Sherlock, John is still the same old boring John. Snub nose, thick blond hair, dark blue eyes. Will his perception of John change when he gets older? Should Sherlock find him attractive?

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes and looks at John properly. John’s not handsome but he’s also far from ugly. He’s small for an Alpha but Sherlock notes the broadness of his shoulders, the strength hidden beneath the muscles of his back. They ripple when John stretches his arms over his head and yawns, then curses when his suit stops him halfway. “Fucking clothes,” he mutters before he quickly clamps his mouth shut then shakes his head at Sherlock. “Pretend I didn’t say that.”

 

“Fucking,” Sherlock repeats, smiling beatifically as John glares at him. He holds out his arm. John grumbles but does his cufflinks for him anyway.

 

“Why am I even being forced to go to your dumb show?” John moans, slumping in the bar stool he’s sitting in and burying his face in his hands. “I hate Wagner.”

 

Sherlock looks at him as he pulls the tie off. “You know classical?” he asks then wrenches away when John tries to put the tie back.

 

“School orchestra, required, clarinet, world’s strictest music teacher.” John yawns again and drops the tie on the kitchen counter. Sherlock knows he doesn’t sleep well here even though John has stayed for the summer more times than either of them like. He looks rumpled even in his freshly-ironed navy blue suit and black tie.

 

“Oh, stop that,” John snaps when Sherlock just stares at him disbelievingly. “I’m not a Neanderthal when it comes to music.”

 

Sherlock shrugs. “At least you’re not Greg.”

 

“Ugh.” John makes a face. “That band of his might be great if Greg’s the one singing. And Greg’s music taste isn’t all that bad. The Smashing Pumpkins, The Clash, The Pixies…they’re not horrid.”

 

“And now you’ve lost what little respect I have for you.”

 

“Brat,” John mutters and Sherlock grins. It fades when Father steps in the kitchen. Sherlock excuses it as his base nature when he backs away until John’s knees are pressed against his back. John’s hand finds its way to his shoulder and he squeezes once.

 

Father regards them coolly. “We’re leaving now,” he says then glares at John. “You two shouldn’t be allowed alone with each other.”

 

“Greg and Mycroft are allowed.”

 

“Mycroft can hold himself,” Father explains and John freezes. Sherlock bristles and he steps forward but John’s hand is still on his shoulder and it holds him back, pulls him in until John’s knees begin to feel uncomfortable against his spine.

 

They leave in separate cars, a ridiculous old fashioned notion. Mycroft and John are with Father while Sherlock and Greg get in with Mummy. She laughs when she sees Greg’s hair. “Oh dear, what have you done to yourself?” she says and Sherlock smirks at the way Greg’s ears flush red.

 

The opera house is already crowded when they arrive. Sherlock wrestles out of Mummy’s arms and grabs his violin before he heads off to the other young virtuosos. “Nice violin,” a girl tells him. Sherlock pauses and stares at her. Fourteen at most, not from these parts, Bristol most likely, cello player…Sherlock sniffs the air. Beta.

 

“Jessica,” the girl says, raising a hand to shake his. Sherlock only stares at it and Jessica drops her hand.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“You’re pretty young.” Jessica is smiling at him fondly despite Sherlock’s coldness. Omega siblings no doubt. Only Alphas pay extra attention to him.

 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything and doesn’t look at Jessica once when he takes a seat. The lights are bright but Sherlock manages to adjust his eyes to them. The crowd slowly becomes less of a mass of black shapes and more into an audience. The music begins, the violins first and Sherlock purses his lips when he realizes that Father isn’t there at all. Greg looks restless, Mycroft has his eyes closed, Mummy’s smiling at him encouragingly, and John looks…enthralled. Sherlock has no idea why but it makes him feel like he has to show off.

 

He does and it’s too much, according to the concertmaster who pulls him aside when it’s over and yells at Sherlock rapidly in French. Sherlock understands it—impossible not to when he spends so much time in Verne—and he yells back in French as well until heads are turning towards them and John, who has been ordered to be there at Sherlock’s beck and call, comes in between them. “Sorry, sorry,” John says repeatedly. “Er, désolé? Is that right? S’il vous plaît, désolé? Monsieur.”

 

Sherlock laughs.

 

John turns to him. “What?”

 

“Madame, not monsieur.”

 

The concertmaster snarls at them. To John, she yells, “Casse-toi!”

 

“That translates to—”

 

“No, Sherlock, please don’t.”

 

John brings him back to his family. Mummy is proud of him but Father, who’s reappeared, looks livid. Mycroft notices and he looks at Sherlock worryingly.

 

They have dinner at a nearby restaurant with a family friend Sherlock doesn’t know. The woman is an Alpha, unbonded Sherlock notes when she coos over him and pinches his cheek between her thumb and forefinger. It makes John laugh and Sherlock flicks a bit of filet mignon in his direction. It hits his tie and John swears to Greg’s amusement and Father’s annoyance.

 

“They’re bonded?” She looks at Sherlock then at John who ducks his head to avoid her shrewd gaze. “How…adorable!”

 

“Yes, both of our children are,” Mummy says.

 

“Ah, yes, Mycroft and Gregory, correct? And when will the wedding be?”

 

Greg, to Sherlock’s delight, actually chokes on his wine. John thumps him on the back until Greg recovers and stares at the woman in bewilderment. “What?” he yelps, ears red.

 

The Alpha woman’s brows are raised. “Well, you’re already seventeen, aren’t you? You’re old enough to have children.”

 

Greg flushes and looks at Mycroft helplessly. “We’ll get married when we’re ready,” Mycroft answers coolly. “Right now our education is more important.”

 

“Oh, yes, for you, Mycroft. But Gregory has already had enough studying to last for a lifetime.”

 

Greg’s surprise turns to suppressed anger and Sherlock can feel himself getting furious as well. It must show on his face because Father is looking at him dangerously. Sherlock tightens his grip around his knife until his knuckles burn white. Beside him, John tenses as well and reaches over to rest a hand on the one holding the knife, trying to pry his fingers off it.

 

Sherlock lets go but he doesn’t stop.

 

“We’re not brood mares you know!” he yells, his voice loud enough to carry across the room. Heads turn towards them.

 

“Sherlock!” Father warns.

 

John shakes his head. “Don’t, Sherlock.”

 

But the Alpha woman irritates him too much. “No, of course you don’t,” Sherlock continues despite the swift kick Mycroft delivers to his shin. “You used to be married, happily so but your mate left you. You miss him. The mark on your finger says you still wear your wedding ring when you’re not in the company of people you know. Why’d he leave you? It’s because you’re polygamous. I can smell them on you. Makes me sick.” Sherlock draws breath. “You don’t want to bond again because you’re afraid they’ll leave you again. Good choice. No one else will be stupid enough to marry a gold digger like you, another reason why your mate left.”

 

“Sherlock!”

 

The Alpha woman sits there, stunned. The whole restaurant is silent and Mummy has her hand clamped over her mouth, looking shaken. Father is shaking with anger. He stands up quickly, his chair screeching as it’s pushed backwards. “Excuse us for a moment,” he says in a voice fighting to keep steady.

 

Father takes hold of him. His fingers dig in his arm as he drags Sherlock outside, to an empty space in the parking lot. He releases him harshly and Sherlock fights to keep his balance.

 

“What was that about?” Father hisses, his pale eyes narrowed. “Stop embarrassing me, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock clenches his fists. Oh it would feel so good to punch him, to feel bones crushing beneath his knuckles. But he’s not six anymore and he knows better than to fight and scream and hit Father. He’d done it once and Father had locked him in a broom closet until Sherlock screamed himself hoarse and his fists were bleeding from pounding on the door.

 

“It’s you,” Sherlock growls, “It’s you and people like her!”

 

“Is this about that boarding school idea of yours again? If I had my way, Sherlock, you wouldn’t even be going but the government entails it. We’ll have you permanently bonded to John the moment you turn sixteen. You’re too much trouble.”

 

“I don’t want to!” Sherlock yells back. “You always make me do things I don’t want! I hate you!”

 

One second his father is glaring down at him, the next he delivers a stinging slap to Sherlock’s cheek. It burns and it hurts so much that Sherlock can’t help but tear up.

 

Father grits his teeth. “Sherlock as my son, I’m entitled to love you.” He leans down and says in a voice so quiet Sherlock has to strain his ears to hear the words, “But the thing is, I really don’t like you at all.”

 

* * *

 

When John sees it, the urge to tackle Sherlock’s father to the ground and beat him bloody hits him hard. He fights it, though, and lurks behind the car until Sherlock’s father returns to the restaurant and Sherlock stays there, stunned. John straightens himself, ready to go to him but Sherlock suddenly tears off.

 

Damn him, John thinks. For someone so small, Sherlock is startlingly fast. It’s fortunate for John that he knows exactly where Sherlock likes to go when he’s sulking.

 

The park is only two blocks away. John sniffs the air experimentally but he can’t smell Sherlock. It rained a while ago and the scent of it is still strong enough to tamper with the other smells. _Use your eyes, Watson_.

 

He finds it eventually, the largest tree in the park. “So much for the suit,” he sighs as he clambers up the trunk. Twigs snag at his sleeves and tear holes in the material. John winces at each damage but doesn’t dare stop until he gets to one of the higher branches.

 

“Hey, monkey.” John heaves himself up. “You and your fondness for heights. Look at my suit. It’s ruined.”

 

Sherlock says nothing. He’s leaning against the trunk, seated with his legs drawn to his chest, looking at anything but John. Even in the darkness, John can make out the red handprint on Sherlock’s cheek.

 

John rolls his eyes. “You’re upset; I can feel it, you know. This pre-bond thing does have its perks. Your dad shouldn’t have done that even though you said a lot of bad things a while ago.” He holds out his arms. “I’ve learned enough biology to know that I can make you feel better. So for once, just let go of that ego of yours and give in to your base nature.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t move and John thinks he’s said the wrong thing. But finally he leans forward.

 

“Know what this reminds me of?”

 

Sherlock shakes his head.

 

“That time when you asked me to play pirates with you and you climbed that tree without my knowing. You scared me; thought you were going to fall until Mycroft pointed out you always do that.” John ruffles his hair and Sherlock pulls away slightly with distaste. “You really are like my kid brother. I hate you but at the same time, I like you as well.”

 

“I hate you,” Sherlock mutters in his arms.

 

John snorts. “I love you, too,” he answers sarcastically and he can feel Sherlock’s lips curve in a smile against his neck.

 

* * *

 

“His name’s Sherrinford. I had him when I was sixteen.”

 

“It’s still not allowed.”

 

“You’re blackmailing me, then?”

 

“I’m giving you a choice. You’ve always felt trapped, haven’t you? When you’re with us.”

 

“…”

 

“I’m not afraid to do it. I thought about letting it be but things changed”

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“John told me.”

 

“What do you want then?”

 

Mycroft looks away from the window and at Father who’s finally looked up from the picture in his hands. “I want you to pull enough strings to let Sherlock in the school he wants,” Mycroft says, “He’s too smart for those schools you make him go to. That’s why he’s always acting up. He’s wasted in them.

 

Mycroft breathes shakily. He clenches his fist, forces himself to focus. He’s doing the right thing.

 

“And then I want you to go. You’ve wanted this for a long time now and I think it’s better if you severe the bond you have with Mummy.”

 

Father stares at him, long and hard.

 

“I want you to stay away from Sherlock.”

 

“He’s my son.”

 

“He’s my brother.” Mycroft stares back at Father and this time, it's him who looks away. “And I will never let anyone hurt him.”

 

 


	5. Four Years Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's already in boarding school, John and Greg are in uni, and Mycroft is in the early days of being the British Government.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something to lessen the drama of the previous and next chapters.

“Hi, I was wondering if I could—”

 

“No.”

 

“Interview you maybe?”

 

“No.”

 

“Your opinion on pre-bonding since you’re—”

 

“No.”

 

“For our research paper?”

 

“No—Wait!”

 

The boy turns around, the disappointment on his face replaced by hope. His grin is too wide, exposing a set of white teeth and crooked braces. “You’ll do it?” he says and the way he looks at him tells Sherlock that he expects more than an interview. Alpha, he thinks, breathing in the salt-water scent of the boy.

 

Disgusting.

 

“No,” he replies. His hand darts to the boy’s shirt pocket and quickly retracts the pack of cigarettes. The boy is too startled to do anything other than blink at him confusedly.

 

“I just wanted this,” Sherlock tells him. And then he slams the door shut.

 

His (third, fourth?) roommate Soo Lin Yao looks up from her book and rolls his eyes at him. “Couldn’t you have agreed?” she asks, practically shouting. Sherlock has half a mind to tell her to not talk to him when she has her headphones on (and more preferably not talk to him at all during her stay here) but as the headphones stop Soo Lin Yao from throwing his violin out the window, Sherlock decides not to say anything.

 

If he had his way he wouldn’t have any roommates, but no, according to them, he needs a Beta to protect him if the need arises. Even telling the faculty that the headmaster was having an affair with three of the teachers didn’t help.

 

He motions for her to slip them off for a moment. “The difference between love and bonding,” Sherlock mutters when she obeys. He lets himself fall face down on his bed, disturbing the sheets of paper lying on his mattress. There is a crunch underneath his hip. A glass vial underneath his duvet, no doubt. Sherlock pays it no mind.“Easy enough to answer. There’s no such thing as love.”

 

He can almost hear the protests in her head. Her getting ready to argue with him and using romantic comedies as reference.Or worse, Shakespeare. Sherlock has read _Romeo and Juliet_. He does not find them romantic. Rather, he sees them as the two lovesick idiots who weren’t even noble but died like martyrs by creating happiness for others. There is nothing at all romantic about Romeo who quickly lost interest in the girl he was courting­ when he saw Juliet. Like a dog to a bitch in heat as Greg likes to say.

 

“Yes there is,” Soo Lin Yao argues and Sherlock snaps because Shakesepeare is in his head and he has a fathomless hatred for the man.

 

“It’s biology! It’s just the release of pheromones during estrus that gives us the urge to procreate, caused by some genetic malfunction to fully evolve from our primal manifestations thousands and thousands of years ago. All of it.” It doesn’t explain why Father left willingly, though. Why he held on to a family he hadn’t even planned and ignored the one he’d made through the bond his family had arranged for him. Sherlock scowls at the memory of his father and yanks a pillow over his head, hoping to drown all thoughts of _him._ He hasn’t seen him since he left four years ago and if Mycroft does, he never says.

 

And when he does something that his family finds disgraceful and Mycroft looks at him exasperatedly, like he’s regretting making their father leave, Sherlock just ignores it.

 

Soo Lin Yao grins at him. Her teeth are too straight and there’s a dip below her lower lip. Braces for two years, recently got them removed which he easily sees from the way she keeps licking her teeth absent-mindedly. “You should have agreed. They’d ask you if you believe in _soul bonding_.”

 

Sherlock groans. “A horribly romantic idea. A carefully woven lie made to enthral the masses and draw idiots to the shit telly the mass media produce. It is consumerism. That’s my answer, though I suspect that if I had agreed we wouldn’t even get any further from ‘hello’.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

Sherlock pulls the pillow off his head and looks at her like she’s an idiot. He says ‘like’ because Soo Lin Yao isn’t an idiot. Not a genius like him—he doubts there’s anyone in this school who’s up to his standards—but she’s smart, academically. And she’s a Beta so Sherlock excuses her ignorance. They don’t understand. The only ones who do are the ones who experience the primal urges of their base natures.

 

“Oh honestly. Did you not notice that all of them were Alphas and that all thirteen of them could have easily researched it on the internet? And that all thirteen of them—”

 

“Wanted to get in your pants. Nothing new there,” Soo Lin Yao finishes. “I don’t even see why you hate it so much. It’s not like you hate your bond mate.”

 

Sherlock scowls at her. “He’s an idiot.”

 

“You never call him that when you’re talking to him on the phone.”

 

“And?”

 

“You’re also wearing his scarf.”

 

He shoots her a glare but she’s already gone back to her book and slipped her headphones back on. For a while (actually two point forty-eight seconds) he contemplates reading. But the thought is dismissed. He has no new books to amuse him and several prefects had come in and confiscated his experiments after his roommate (not Soo Lin Yao) complained of the smell. The room, which used to smell of burnt hair and mouldy bread, now smells of artificial orchids and tangerines. It is too girly and is made even more by the numerous posters of boy bands plastered on the wall at Soo Lin Yao’s side. Sherlock’s own wall isn’t clean but instead of the faces of celebrities, he has newspaper clippings of murders and robberies, a wanted poster of a drug lord who is worth million pounds, and a map of London that is covered with notes and pins, pointing out the location of a criminal. It irritates him that he’s stuck here solving murders while the police are out there letting people get away with one. And no one ever _listens_ to him.

 

Why does the world have to be so BORING?

 

Sherlock huffs then opens the pack but Soo Lin Yao stops him with a copy of Orwell’s _1984_. Mycroft, Sherlock thinks as the book bounces off his chest. He can never think about that book without thinking of his brother first. He’s tempted to burn Soo Lin Yao’s copy but she knows martial arts, and while Sherlock did learn boxing last summer, Soo Lin Yao knows things that would startle even his stone-cold brother.

 

“No smoking here,” she says (yells) to him without glancing in his direction. “Andy’s coming later and he has asthma.”

 

Andy, Andy…Doesn’t ring a bell. Well, he’s not good with names of people who aren’t interesting.

 

“Who?”

 

“My boyfriend, you tosser.”

 

Boring, Sherlock thinks but doesn’t dare say, not when his roommate has a heavier book at her side. It’s something to do with tea ceremonies (uninteresting, delete). He shoots her a glare which she ignores, then swings his legs to the other side of the bed. “Try not to let them near your pants,” she manages to say before he slams the door shut.

 

It’s a little bit too warm outside to wear his coat comfortably but Sherlock doesn’t even think of shedding it. He can smell all of the Alphas hanging about in the courtyard, some of whom have turned to look at him with hungry expressions in their eyes. Neanderthals, the lot of them. He’s not worried that they might jump him; they’ve attended enough sex ed classes to learn self-control. And he smells of John, especially when he has the older boy’s scarf wrapped around his neck (he currently doesn’t have one of his own and Soo Lin Yao is wrong wrong wrong with her implications that it means something more). Still, it doesn’t matter that everyone in the school knows he’s already promised to someone. Alpha students flirt with him while teachers smile at him fondly regardless of Sherlock’s rudeness. The Betas as well though Sherlock suspects that has got to do more with his physical appearance than pheromones. There’s also the groping. Three Alphas once tried to get a hold of him and Sherlock had sent them to the Infirmary with minor head wounds, one of them nearly losing an eye when Sherlock grabbed a scalpel and used it to make her back off.

 

The story’s old news but it still makes people wary of him. A cutting glare sends them skittering away. Some are bolder, though. One of the older students grins at him when he stops to light a cigarette. Sherlock knows him as Jason Mathews, that rich kid from Bristol who always stops to flirt with him. Sherlock scowls at him. Seventeen-years-old, Alpha, plays football or rugby judging from his calf muscles, tanned from the beach, went overseas last summer, Barcelona, maybe. Sherlock sniffs and gets a whiff of his dark chocolate scent. His stomach folds in on itself and he fights the urge to gag. Stupid pre-bond. All Alphas who aren’t John and who aren’t related to him smell absolutely vile. It’s the same for John, no doubt, the pre-bond putting him off Omegas who aren’t Sherlock, but as he never complains about it, Sherlock thinks he doesn’t feel as nauseous when it happens to him. He curses his strong sense of smell once more then glares at the Alpha.

 

Jason is unfazed by it and even dares to lean towards Sherlock. He pulls back though with a small snarl and Sherlock smirks and wraps John’s scarf tighter around himself. “All the good ones are taken,” Sherlock hears him mutter to his friend when they think he’s out of earshot.

 

“Yeah, that Sherlock Holmes. Only Omega in this whole fucking school and he’s already bonded.”

 

“Well, his Alpha better watch out or else I’m taking the kid myself.”

 

“Jason!” his friend says, laughing, “Kid’s only fifteen!”

 

“So? He’s old enough. And if he has his heat and his Alpha’s not here well…finders keepers, eh?”

 

Sherlock looks over his shoulder and glares at the boys who are doubled over with laughter. _Idiots_. Most Alphas are. The only exceptions so far are those from his family and John. John doesn’t lose control or treat Sherlock like a bloody sex toy. John, however, does treat Sherlock like a six-year-old and it’s strange that the one Alpha who can have him is also the one Alpha who doesn’t want anything more than a platonic relationship. Not that Sherlock minds (given the choice, he’d rather spend the rest of his life with beakers and decomposing animal carcasses), but still. It’s as if John isn’t an Alpha at all.

 

Buttoning his coat up to conceal his uniform, Sherlock walks past the front gates of the school. London is, as usual, packed with people going in and out of buildings and stopping to hail cabs. When Sherlock had first gone to London, he was overwhelmed with all the scents. In such a small space, it’s harder to distinguish each scent individually, and with Sherlock’s sensitive nose, it’s unbearable whenever his immune system drops down.

 

But today he’s healthy and terribly, terribly bored.

 

CCTV cameras swerve in his direction when he comes into view. Sherlock flips each one the v, ignoring the scandalized look an old woman shoots him. Mycroft disapproves of him gallivanting the streets without an escort but as he’s always too busy with that _job_ of his, he can’t do anything about it other than watch out for Sherlock through the surveillance cameras. Once, he’d hired people to trail after Sherlock but Sherlock was able to get rid of all of them, either by kicking them in their more sensitive areas, or screaming loudly like he was being harassed until authorities came. He might not mind it if it’s John with him, though, as he’s already so used to the older boy trailing after him. But John’s in uni now, and besides, Sherlock’s more than capable of defending himself when trouble rises.

 

Even out here, Alphas turn to look at him. The older ones smile admiringly while the younger ones look at him with hungry eyes. Sherlock has to grin himself. He’s lucky; he didn’t go through any of the physical awkwardness of puberty. He knows he looks better, that he’s no longer just all elbows and knees. And he’s gotten taller as well, to John’s annoyance. He towers over the older boy now and Sherlock knows that he’ll only get even taller when time passes.

 

He passes by an alley and pauses when one of the bedraggled lumps huddled against the wall stands up and goes to him. It’s a ten-year-old child with hair that might be blond or brown underneath the grime. Two dark brown eyes look at him excitedly. The boy grins, revealing one missing front tooth, and Sherlock identifies him as one of the homeless people he’d paid to serve as his ‘eyes and ears’. Billy, he remembers.

 

It looks likeone of Mycroft’s teachings isn’t totally useless.

 

But this is the first time one of them has come up to him. “This better be interesting,” he says warily, slipping one hand in his empty pocket, making it look like he’s frightened for his wallet. His wallet is actually in the right pocket and empty but for a few fake ID’s. The important thing is tucked in the waistband of his pants, a credit card with Mycroft’s name on it. Only one of the many he’d stolen from his brother.

 

“You like ‘em yellow tapes?” Billy says, ignoring his hand and the possibility of pickpocketing him. “Got one for you.”

 

Sherlock drops his cigarette and crushes it with his shoe. “Murder?”

 

“Maybe, maybe not. Young Alpha drowned in a pool.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Boring.”

 

He starts to turn away but Billy calls him again. “Champion swimmers don’t just drown, Mister,” he says.

 

Oh?

 

Sherlock stares at him. Billy’s grinning now, eyes shining, and Sherlock can feel his lips stretching in a small smile, one that almost lets him mirror the younger boy’s expression.

 

“Show me.”

 

* * *

 

 

John nearly drops his phone.

 

“HE GOT WHAT?”

 

“Hit by a car,” Greg sighs at the other end of the line. John can hear someone laughing in the background, the clink of glasses and the faint sound of someone plucking a guitar. Greg must be in a friend’s pub. “Didn’t you feel it?”

 

John has to admit that he’s been feeling strange since this morning. Restless, like he wants nothing more than to run away from his current destination. John turns around and looks at his date, a classmate of his named Sarah who doesn’t look like she’s enjoying herself. John mentally curses himself _and_ Sherlock. Sarah’s beautiful and smart and she likes John in spite of the pre-bond with Sherlock. But all John can think of is Sherlock helpless, his mangled body crushed beneath the wheels of a—

 

Stop it, John.

 

“He’s fine but I can’t visit him. I have to see Dad off.”

 

“Mycroft?”

 

There’s a pause. Then Greg laughs, a little bitterly. “Not sure when but no doubt he’s going. He’s just...busy.”

 

“Oh.”

 

The sounds of the pub fade and are replaced by the sound of cars rushing down the streets. “Their mum’s in France at the moment,” Greg explains over the sound of a cab door being slammed shut. John hears a tapping sound. Did Greg get his ears pierced again? It’s the only explanation John can think of—

 

Dear god, Sherlock is trying to convert him to a life of observation.

 

John shakes his head. _Focus._

 

“St. Bart’s? I’m sure you’re familiar with it. You live closer to Sherlock’s school.”

 

“Yeah, it’s just a half hour away from ours.”

 

“Not doing anything at the moment though, are you?”

 

John looks at Sarah again. She’s tapping her fork against the tabletop, looking bored out of her mind. “Er,” John says, “I’m actually on a date.”

 

“Oh.” Greg doesn’t bother hiding the disapproval in his voice. John winces. He gets enough of that from Harry and his mum. “You do know that your excuse of dating people because Sherlock’s still a little kid will bite you soon. Brat’s already fifteen.”

 

“Greg,” John groans, “last summer Sherlock just told me he’d stopped hating me because I always let him experiment on me. Twenty-three times and counting. We’re not...He’s too young and I’m already eighteen! I’m not corrupting any minors!”

 

“I’m not telling you to f—”

 

“Please don’t. Please, please don’t say that and Sherlock in the same sentence. We’re not like you and Mycroft, alright?”

 

“Mycroft and I aren’t sex maniacs!”

 

“Well that goes double for us.” Oh, wait, no, that sounds like there’s already something happening between them. John mentally slaps himself.“You get my point!”

 

Greg chuckles. “Alright. But visit him as soon as your date is over, okay?”

 

John hangs up and tries to focus on Sarah once more. But after a few minutes it proves to be futile. John keeps shifting in his seat and the Alpha part of his brain is screaming at him to hail a cab already and go to Sherlock.

 

John gives in to it.

 

“Er, Sarah,” he begins then stops. What should he say? Sorry but I need to be somewhere else? She’ll hate him. But it’s better than ‘Sorry, but I need to go to my bond mate who was brought to a hospital maybe around forty minutes ago because he was hit by a car? And oh yeah, he’s only fifteen and there’s no one to visit him at the moment?’ Sarah might murder him if he says those things. They’re only doing this for fun and Sarah did say that, at the end of the day, Sherlock has to be John’s top priority. She even seems to ensure it.

 

“I get it,” Sarah says and John’s surprised to see that she actually looks relieved. He thinks he should be offended but he’s mirroring her expression. “Ugh, we shouldn’t have tried this.”

 

“Right.” John flushes. It was his idea. “Sorry.”

 

“We’ll just stay friends, okay?” She pats his cheek fondly when she stands up. “I’d better go.”

 

John nods and waves her off before he’s running and clambering in the first cab he hails. “St. Bart’s,” he gasps. The cab wastes no time and in a few minutes, John’s already there.

 

The receptionist tells him that Sherlock is in the third floor. John doesn’t even bother checking the numbers. When a nurse bursts from one of the rooms to his right, sobbing uncontrollably, John doesn’t even hesitate.

 

Sherlock is up, and apart from a thick gauze around his head and some minor injuries, he looks fine. Grumpy, actually. His brows are furrowed and his lower lip is sticking out in the way John has associated with ‘Sherlock’s about to have a tantrum’ and ‘Mycroft’s here’. Mycroft isn’t with him, though, but as Sherlock has his phone pressed to his ear, John guesses he’s with them via phone call. There is, however, a boy sitting at Sherlock’s side. He’s young, possibly Sherlock’s age or a year older. He has wavy brown hair and freckles and dark green eyes that regard John warily.

 

“Is that my scarf?” is the first thing that comes out of John’s mouth, not ‘Are you alright?’ and the part of John’s brain that isn’t focused on his scarf around Sherlock’s neck rolls its eyes. The Alpha part of him is pleased that Sherlock’s wearing something of his but John suppresses that and again curses the entity who thought it amusing to give them fucked up libidos.

 

Sherlock covers his phone with a hand. “Yes.”

 

“That’s my scarf. Harry bought that for me for my birthday. I’ve been looking for that for ages.” He stares at Sherlock. The younger boy matches his gaze. “You’re not going to give it back, are you?”

 

“Obviously not.”

 

John sniffs. “And you smell like cigarettes. Cigarettes, Sherlock! You’ve been smoking again. How many times have I told you that those things will kill you?”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “My idiot,” Sherlock explains to the boy as he sets (actually, slams) the phone down. The vase on the table wobbles precariously close to the edge. John leaps forward and rights it.

 

“What he means to say is, I’m the poor sod who had the misfortune of being bonded to him at an early age,” John answers. The boy’s eyes don’t widen meaning the concept of pre-bonding doesn’t come to him as a surprise. No wonder, John thinks. The boy’s wearing the same posh school uniform as Sherlock, only he’s wearing a tie, whereas Sherlock, ever the rebel, has never been caught with one on him. He’s frowning, though, but John doesn’t dwell on it. The Alpha part of him is taking over and he lets it so that he’s seated on the bed beside Sherlock, checking for abrasions on his pale forearms.

 

“I’m sorry,” the kid blurts out. “I didn’t—my brother was just driving and all of a sudden—I mean,” he shrinks from John’s questioning gaze, “we didn’t mean to hit him.”

 

“You—”

 

John’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He tears his eyes away from the boy and takes it out.

 

_Don’t kill the boy. Entirely Sherlock’s fault for crossing the street during a green light. He got over excited when he saw the crime scene. –M_

“Wasn’t my fault,” Sherlock pipes in.

 

“Your brother mentioned crime scene so I have to believe that it is your fault.”

 

“Hate you,” Sherlock mutters without real vehemence.

 

John grins at him. “Love you, too… _candy lips_.”

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him but he’s smiling as well, albeit slightly. “Sugar lump.”

 

“Honey bunny.”

 

“Baby cakes.”

 

Sherlock wrenches his arms out of his and kicks him hard, nostrils flaring defiantly. “No,” he growls, “That is vile!”

 

“Oh, so you don’t like me calling you baby cakes then?” From the corner of his eye, John sees the boy looking at them strangely. “Oh god, do Mycroft and Greg use _endearments_?”

 

“Shut up, John!” Sherlock kicks his side with enough force to make John double over. Damn his long legs.

 

“I’m being rude,” John says to the boy after succeeding in trapping Sherlock’s legs beneath his own. For a moment Sherlock struggles against his hold but a scathing look from John tells him to quit it. The younger boy is now glowering at him, arms folded across his chest while his feet twitch under John’s thighs. “My name’s John. Yours?”

 

The boy smiles a little. “Victor. I’m in the same year as Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock frowns at him. “Really?”

 

“Don’t be offended,” John quickly says when Victor’s brows furrow. “He’s not a people person.”

 

“People are boring,” Sherlock answers and it really isn’t helping because Victor’s frown deepens. John flicks his nose, making the other boy hiss at him like a mongoose to a snake.

 

“Quit it.”

 

But of course, Sherlock doesn’t. John has known Sherlock long enough to know that he’ll always want the last word, will probably even fend off Death just to rattle his observations to him. He soon becomes quite loud, enough that John has to stop countering his attacks when Victor looks at them, mortified. Sherlock, however, refuses to stop talking and when Mycroft enters the room twenty minutes later with a doctor in tow, Sherlock is practically yelling.

 

“Get out!” he growls at Mycroft. John tries a smile but Mycroft ignores it as usual. He’s focused on Sherlock and is staring at him with a look that’s partly amused and partly irritated.

 

“You heard my brother,” he says to John, “I’m afraid you and Mr Trevor have to leave.”

 

“I’m not talking about John, you fat sod.”

 

Mycroft purses his lips but John doesn’t fail to notice how his left eye twitches. “He’ll be discharged later,” he tells John as he pushes him and Victor out of the room, ignoring Sherlock’s protests.

 

Victor stares at him as they walk down the hall. “So,” he says, “you and Sherlock?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“You’re…”

 

Oh. Not this again. John finishes sending a text to Harry about Sherlock and shakes his head at Victor. “We’re not like that,” he tells him. “Like I said, against our will. I mean, we’re close. Kid’s kind of like my brother but right now?” John stops and remembers the time a twelve-year-old Sherlock grabbed onto his shoulders and stood on his toes to kiss him for, and John quotes, “An experiment on the release of endorphins”. A failed experiment, actually, because Sherlock then told John that he tasted absolutely vile, like rotting fish apparently. And no, John did not taste like rotting fish so fuck you very much Sherlock. “No, definitely not.”

 

But the frown doesn’t disappear from Victor’s face. “Really?” he asks, his tone sceptical.

 

“Really.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clues for what happens in the next chapter: Sherlock and the throes of, er, puberty. Also, Victor Trevor is totally Eponine in this story.


	6. The Taste of Adrenaline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The curse that is called puberty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to post this at the same time as the last chapter since this one's pretty short but someone made me play Pokemon and I had an early second childhood. Okay, whatever. Warnings for attempted rape.

Bored. _SH_

 

Bored. _SH_

 

Bored. _SH_

Bored and about to die. _SH_

You are not about to die. _JW_

You have a cold and a short attention span. _JW_

Stop texting me. I have an exam. _JW_

Head hurts. _SH_

Still have an exam. _JW_

I also don’t think that you’re dying since you can still text me. _JW_

Also, you should be in class. _JW_

Class is boring. Like the rest of the world. _SH_

Diva. You should pursue a career in acting once you graduate. _JW_

Bored. _SH_

Sherlock, I really have to finish this. My professor keeps looking at me. We’re not supposed to text. _JW_

You can always stop. _SH_

You’re not going to quit even if I do stop. _JW_

Take a picture of your exam. I’ll answer it for you. _SH_

Don’t you have a headache? And no I’m not going to cheat! _JW_

Do it. _SH_

“Mr Watson.”

 

Shitshitshitshit.

 

John quickly deletes Sherlock’s last two messages before he looks up. Professor Hitchcock (also known as Dick Dick for being named Richard Hitchcock but John is trying very, very hard not to think about that) is standing in front of him, one hand already outstretched and waiting for his phone. “Next time I’ll ask you to leave,” he says before he sweeps away to harass another student. Next to John, Mike sniggers. He’s close enough to be kicked and John does it happily.

 

“Damn you,” Mike hisses, his voice loud enough to carry across the room.

 

“Mr Stamford, eyes on your paper!”

 

John finishes his exam while avoiding Mike’s vengeful feet. He gets his phone back after class. Dick D—Professor Hitchcock (damn you, Murray, damn you) glares at him. “Do not text your boyfriend during my time, Mr Watson,” he warns and John doesn’t even bother saying the lines, “Not my boyfriend.”

 

“So what was it this time?” Mike asks as they make their way through the bottleneck forming at the door. “Experiments? Trying to enter crime scenes?” Mike slows down. “Trying to enter crime scenes _again_?”

 

“Actually, he’s sick.” John scrolls past the new messages, all of which came from Sherlock. “Apparently, he’s more Sherlock when he’s sick.”

 

“Cute.”

 

“Annoying,” John corrects but he can feel himself smiling. The smile, however, is soon replaced by a look of disgust. “Jesus, he just sent me a picture of his new ‘experiment’.”

 

Mike leans toward him. His face pales. “Is that a cat?”

 

“Was. Oh wait no. Sherlock says it’s a dead rat.”

 

“Didn’t know rats could get that big.”

 

“Oh wait. Got another message. It’s a pregnant smaller rat inside a rat inside a cat. Also pregnant.”

 

“The sewer rat?”

 

John rolls his eyes. “No, Mike. The cat.”

 

“Huh.”

 

 John squints. “They’re all dead, I think.”

 

“You think? John, they’re cut open.”

 

They are indeed sliced open. Sherlock did it perfectly and John is almost tempted to call it art. But to do so would be a whole lot of not good. John knows he should be afraid that the person he’s supposed to spend the rest of his life with can slice cadavers like a pro. But then John will be a doctor someday and it’s not like doctors can’t be killers. Look at the Black Dahlia for example. John is pretty sure (okay, Sherlock may have said a few things) that the person who killed her was a surgeon.

 

“You never know with Sherlock,” John answers finally as he deletes the media files. “He’s the catalyst for the zombie invasion.”

 

Mike shakes his head. “I take back what I said about you being lucky,” he says. “Kid seems like a nightmare. How do you deal with him?”

 

John shrugs. “I have a thirteen-year-old sister. Sherlock’s just like Harry.” John pauses. “Well, like Harry only with more drama and whining. Also, with better hair.”

 

Mike just gives him this look and John sighs. There’s no use explaining to any of his friends what his relationship with Sherlock is. John isn’t even sure what they are. He’s not sure if he’s even Sherlock’s friend. Surely friends don’t wrap wires around your arm while you’re sleeping and electrocute you without your consent? And no, no, he does _not_ like Sherlock in that way so shut up Murray and you as well, Mike. He’s probably an older brother, then, though Sherlock already has Mycroft for that and Greg fills in as well (Greg’s more a father type actually but to say that to Sherlock would be cruel and things would end up badly for John). But it seems Mycroft only gets the ‘don’t you dare touch my brother’ part and not the ‘I’m your brother and I love you’ part.

 

Or maybe John’s just the guinea pig.

 

Mike opens his mouth to say something but is cut off by a battle cry and one Bill Murray. Mike is sent sprawling to the ground with Bill sitting on top of him. Bill grins up at John, looking a lot like the Cheshire cat with his gaudy striped shirt and too-big smile. People glance at them but quickly move on. Nothing they haven’t seen before.

 

“Murray, off,” Mike complains from the ground. “You’re heavier than you look.”

 

“Your fat’s already absorbed all the pain, Stamford,” Bill counters. He jumps and lands on Mike again, making the other boy squeal—and John thinks—very much like a pig.

 

“Stop bickering,” John orders and for once, Bill actually complies. John hauls him off Mike who looks like he wants nothing more than to repeatedly slam his fist in Bill’s face.

 

“Party tonight,” Bill tells them as he puts his arms around their shoulders, squeezing once and thankfully, only once, because Bill can crush cars with those arms. He’s not the type of person John should like but Bill is somehow different from the gym-addicts-with-red-sports-cars type in campus John had originally put him with. And the fact that he’s an Alpha as well should put John off (because that idiot part of his brain cannot shut up about Sherlock) but Bill Murray is someone nature does not agree with. Mike on the other hand is safe. Beta, smart, quiet, and surprisingly sarcastic. He also seems fond of Sherlock even though he’s never met him in person. It is either that or Mike is secretly waiting for John to show signs of madness.

 

John frees himself from Bill’s grasp. “Where?”

 

“Kendra’s place. You know her.”

 

Kendra must be one of Bill’s ‘acquaintances’. John doubts Bill even knows her. Or remembers her for that matter. Kendra might be one of Bill’s drunken one night stands and Bill might have just remembered that Kendra the Acquaintance told him about a party in a strange town. This mistake has happened before and John never wants to relive it again because it included bars and too much tequila and John had woken up with his wrists bound to a bed post (thankfully still clothed when a still sober Mike burst in). There is also still no explanation to the turtle he found happily crawling on his groin and John has had enough sea creatures near his penis, thank you very much. He doesn’t really want to know what the next thing will be but he has a good feeling it won’t be turtles anymore.

 

Relief washes over him when Mike says that he does know her. “She had an affair with Mr Stiles,” Mike informs him helpfully.

 

Definitely one of Bill’s ‘acquaintances’.

 

“So are you coming?”

 

John shrugs. He shouldn’t be near alcohol—to much history of alcoholism in his family. Also, Sherlock is sick and John can practically _feel_ it. He doesn’t feel sick but he does feel restless which is probably how Sherlock is feeling right now. He’s not sure if there should already be an empathetic link in a pre-bond but as there aren’t many people who have pre-bonds, John can’t compare. He has thought of asking Greg but he really does not want to hear about Greg talking about Mycroft in that way. That is just more than a bit not good.

 

On the other hand, Bill and Mike have been complaining about John no longer hanging out with them. John can’t keep saying that it’s because of Sherlock. Mike already keeps teasing him and Bill will just snort and tell him that Sherlock won’t mind if he sleeps around a bit. Bill won’t hear it if John says it’s not about sex. Okay, maybe it is about the sex. He slept with Sarah (they were drunk and John woke up and asked her out on a date out of guilt) and the whole time there was a part of him that was screaming wrongwrongwrongwrongnotyourmateabortmissionNOTYOURMATE). John can’t really sleep around if every time someone strips in front of him sirens are going off in his head. He can even hear it being _whispered_ when they change in the locker rooms.

 

There is also the fact that a fifteen-year-old is controlling his life. And John’s supposed to be the Alpha in their god-knows-what relationship.

 

“Alright,” he says and Mike cheers. Hopefully there won’t be any sea creatures near the place where they’re going. He sends a quick text to Sherlock that tells him to get better.

* * *

 

John is, again, wrong (not a surprise as John is often wrong about many things even though John is three years older than him and is already attending uni). Not about the short attention span but about the cold. Sherlock has no idea what this is but he knows that colds are supposed to suppress your sense of smell, not enhance it until your head feels as if it’s about to split open. It’s not only his sense of smell. Everything is intense. His clothes feel like sandpaper. There may be a rash forming on his ribs but scratching it is not an option because he’s quite sure that his fingernails will feel like knives against his skin. His hearing is so sharp he thinks he can literally hear a pin drop. He put on Soo Lin Yao’s headphones earlier but they don’t do the job properly. Removing them doesn’t even cross Sherlock’s mind, though. They feel strange on his head and his ears are beginning to itch but he’ll take the discomfort over the possibility of his ear drums bleeding. His sense of sight hasn’t been spared either. Sherlock is pretty sure that the room isn’t supposed to be spinning. And when has that desk been such a bright blue? It used to be almost black.

 

What he does have is a mystery to him. He doesn’t get sick often and he has John to ask about illnesses whenever his curiosity is piqued (must remember further self-study for the future). His stomach feels like there is a scalpel cutting through the inner lining. His abdominal muscles jump when Sherlock places a hand there. He makes the mistake of pressing against it. Breakfast (tea and Red Bull) rises up his throat and escapes his mouth. It falls on the picture of Carl Powers that he forced Mycroft to give to him.

 

“Fuck,” he says before another wave of nausea hits and Carl Powers’ picture disappears into soup. The puddle is a pale brown that contrasts sharply against Soo Lin Yao’s fluffy white carpet.

 

There is a great possibility that she will hurt him. A slap, no doubt, followed by a kick to his shin. She’s too merciful to land her foot on his groin but even the idea of being spared the worst doesn’t appease him. He thinks of hands grabbing him forcefully and he shakes.

 

Damn this. Damn his body and its betrayal. There is a case, a real one this time and one that he knows he can solve. Mycroft told him he has three days to figure it out and Sherlock is almost finished. But his body has to have its way and make him so ill that it feels like he’s being torn to shreds. He can’t even think straight.

 

If this is a side effect of that experiment with the decomposing rate of mammals compared to that of fowls Sherlock will never hear the end of it.

 

But now is not the time to worry about that. He thinks it’s about time he swallow his pride and go to the nurse’s office before his stomach juices plan on destroying any more evidence. Mycroft can only pull so many strings.

 

The world tilts as Sherlock gets up. He puts a hand on the wall. Hot. On the door. Cold.

 

The doorknob practically burns a hole through his hand but Sherlock manages to wrench it open. The others are still in class so he meets no one as he makes his way down the hall. He walks slowly and he has to stop every now and then to lean against the wall and try not to pass out at each spasm of pain. He seriously regrets deleting the nurse’s number from his phone (only contacts are John and Mycroft and a number that belongs to Greg but one Sherlock didn’t bother to save properly).

 

Oh.

 

Nurse’s number. Pain in the abdomen.Heightened senses.

 

_Oh._

 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have deleted those sexed classes from his hard drive, either.

 

Sherlock freezes when the door to his right is wrenched open and Jason Mathews steps out. Ah, Sherlock thinks, so that’s where the awful smell is coming from. Sherlock grits his teeth. Mathews steps forward. One look in his eyes and Sherlock can’t tell he isn’t even bothering to fight his second nature. He _did_ blatantly announce that he was going to rape him weeks ago so Sherlock isn’t surprised by Mathews’ reaction.

 

He throws up one more time just as Mathews grabs hold of him.

* * *

 

 “You okay, John?”

 

John looks at the crowd warily. There is a strange feeling in his gut. “Are you sure it’s okay? I don’t know anyone here.”

 

Bill grins. “That’s what the pints are for.”

 

He shakes his head. It’s probably just nerves.

 

A sticky glass filled with beer is handed to him. “Drink up,” Bill says and John does.

* * *

 

Mathews throws him down the bed. Then his hands are everywhere, tearing at Sherlock’s clothes, pulling his head back to bare his neck. He smells disgusting and his touch is painful. It’s as if he’s holding hot coals and pressing them against Sherlock’s skin.

 

Mathews jerks his head back again when Sherlock tries to sit up. He’ll bite me, Sherlock thinks, his eyes widening. He’ll replace John.

 

There is a part of him that is panicking. There is a part of him that is calling for John. But these parts aren’t him. He’s still Sherlock, mostly, and when Mathews takes his belt off, Sherlock does his best to ignore the pain and to listen to his mind. He twists away from Mathews, grabs hold of the belt, and quickly wraps it around the Alpha’s neck.

 

* * *

 

 

“What’s wrong with you?!”

 

The guy shoves him. “Sorry,” John says as he stumbles backwards. He’s not sure why he did it. He’s only had one pint. It’s either he underestimated his alcohol tolerance or it’s Sherlock.

 

“Sorry?” The guy shrieks. He’s an Alpha and John already knows that things will get ugly pretty quickly. People are looking at them now. Bill is squaring his shoulders, ready to defend John. Behind the guy, John can see three people doing so as well. All Alphas. “You just punched me in the face!”

 

He should check on Sherlock. There must be something wrong. Sherlock must be feeling murderous right now—

 

The guy’s fist slams in his stomach and all thoughts of Sherlock fly out the window.

 

* * *

 

 

Mathews is struggling. He’s bigger than Sherlock but Sherlock’s not the one who’s about to suffer from asphyxiation. His hands are now trying to pry Sherlock’s off his neck, his fingernails raking Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock begins to bleed.

 

He tightens his hold.

* * *

 

 

“Get him, John!”

 

“Punch his stupid face!”

 

Someone knocks him down. His phone slides out of his pocket and falls on the floor where it’s crushed beneath the foot of his assailant.

 

“That was worth three months of rent!” John yells.

 

“Fuck you!”

 

The Alpha part of him takes over fully. Someone makes the mistake of handing him a golf club.

 

Well, it’s not really much of a party without bloodshed, right?

* * *

 

 “Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes are you in there?”

 

Someone is pounding on the door and the sound is loud enough to make Sherlock let go of Mathews. The Alpha slides to the floor, the belt still looped around his neck. It takes Sherlock a while to notice that he’s not breathing.

 

There is a crash and the door swings open.

 

“What’s going on h—”

 

 Headmaster Whitman’s mouth falls open. “Oh my god,” he croaks and Sherlock thinks that he looks ridiculous, that everything is ridiculous. Mathews is the most ridiculous of all. Sherlock draws his knees to his chest and winces as the adrenaline leaves his body.

 

“It’s pretty obvious what happened,” he answers before his body betrays him once more and the world turns black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Sherlock is definitely not a damsel in distress.


	7. Aftermath 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is split into two. It is really quite long.

The first thing Greg notices upon entering the Holmes’ estate is the distress of the household staff. That and the screaming that seems to be coming from the west wing of the second floor where Sherlock’s room is located. There’s someone with him, Greg can tell. Whoever it is, Greg feels sorry for him or her because Sherlock is screaming murder and throwing things around. There is a sound of breaking glass and a heavy thud. Hopefully, it is not the sound of a body falling down.

 

“Not going well then?” he asks one of the maids. She bites her lip and shakes her head before she scurries off to a Sherlock-free area. Others follow her example and soon enough Greg is alone.

 

He wonders where Mycroft is. The last time he talked to him was three days ago when Sherlock was discharged from the hospital. Mycroft told him about the Mathews incident. He had sounded…strange. Like he had no idea what to do only he didn’t know how to tell Greg this.  Greg doesn’t know what to do either. What do you say to someone who was nearly raped, especially when that someone is Sherlock Holmes?

 

Greg tugs his leather jacket closer tighter around himself as he approaches Sherlock’s bedroom. What should he say? It’s only Sherlock’s third day of a week of suffering. First heats are always uncomfortable. Hell, Greg still remembers when it hit him for the very first time. He was riding his bike in the street when it happened and he’d been in the company of two of his Alpha mates who were—thankfully—trained in self-control. They’d quickly brought him home then refrained from contacting him for one week. It had been the loneliest seven days of Greg’s existence.

 

First heats are always uncomfortable. But they’re far from fatal.

 

However, Sherlock being Sherlock is a medical anomaly.

 

The hairs on the back of Greg’s neck bristle when he smells the blood, sharp and hot beneath the honey scent that he’s come to know as Sherlock’s. It makes him hesitate, that and Sherlock’s hoarse yell of, “Don’t you dare come in, Greg!”

 

But Greg’s a stubborn bastard. You have to be when you spend a lot of your time with a Holmes, so he turns the knob and makes his way in.

 

Sherlock’s bedroom is always a mess. It’s a large square room with tall windows and a grand four poster bed. Very much like Mycroft’s. Only unlike Mycroft’s it’s filled with mouldy books from the library and Sherlock’s strange ‘experiments’, most of which have been pushed to one corner of the room. The shelves are filled with jars Greg’s sure Sherlock stole from his school’s laboratory or a hospital morgue. Next to a jar filled with eyeballs is, surprisingly, that old teddy bear Sherlock always carried around when he was younger. Greg never teases him about it. It’s the one thing that reminds Greg that Sherlock did go through childhood like the rest of them.

 

“Hello.” There is a Beta man standing at Sherlock’s bed side though he looks like he’d much rather be elsewhere. A doctor, Greg thinks. He winces when he sees the dark bruise on the side of the man’s head. Not far from him is a fallen book that looks like it weighs more than a two-year-old. It doesn’t take Sherlock’s genius to connect the two.

 

“Hello.” Greg looks at the bed but Sherlock has hidden beneath the sheets and transformed into one huge lump of white cloth. “Sherlock,” he says and the lump quivers in greeting, “you alright?”

 

Mentally, Greg slaps himself. Of course Sherlock’s not alright. No doubt he feels awful right now, emotionally and physically. In reply the lump snorts and Greg translates it to, “Of course I’m not _alright_. You idiocy is alarming, Greg, I’m surprised you can barely even _function_.”

 

Or something like that.

 

The Beta doctor taps him on the shoulder. “I have to go talk to his mother,” he says and Greg can hear the silent plea to please, please allow him to leave. Greg takes pity on him. A healthy Sherlock is bad enough. Apparently a sick one is ten times as worse.

 

“Um, sure, I’ll keep him company for a while.”

 

The doctor practically runs from the room. The door slams shut behind him and the noise is enough to make Sherlock wince and shift so that the sheet falls off his head. His hands are clamped over his ears and he glares at Greg with bloodshot eyes. But what takes Greg off-guard is the amount of blood dribbling down his nose and chin. They fall in fat drops that stain the white sheet. Greg actually takes a step back.

 

“Shit,” Greg hears himself say and Sherlock answers with a humourless laugh. He looks a bit like a vampire right now only the blood is all his. “Jesus, what the hell is happening to you?”

 

“Nasal irritation,” Sherlock explains. He begins to wipe his nose on the blanket but Greg is quicker. The box of tissues is just at the foot of the bed and Greg tosses it to Sherlock who catches it with the hand not holding his nose. “Everyone smells awful. You and Mummy are the exception.”

 

Greg raises his arm and sniffs. In his opinion, he actually smells quite bad, like too much sun and old cigarettes. “It’s because you’re an Omega,” Sherlock mutters after he rolls his eyes. Greg drops his arm and sees that, yes, his presence does seem to be helping slightly. The bleeding seems to have stopped.

 

“How come your mum’s not here then?”

 

“She’s busy.”

 

Sherlock isn’t looking at him and Greg bites his tongue because he really should stop asking things about Sherlock’s parents. He should have learned from Mycroft already but it keeps slipping his mind. Both parents absent even though one of them is right here. Greg’s not in the position to judge Mrs Holmes’ actions. She’s afraid, he thinks and while the Omega part of Greg protests that there is nothing wrong with Mycroft (because really, there are obviously a lot of wrong things about Sherlock), the other part of him thinks that he should be a little afraid as well because Mycroft hasn’t been the same since he got that job of his. He’s been distant and cold and Greg does his best to ignore it because they’re supposed to be the role models, right?

 

“You never said it would be this difficult,” Sherlock huffs after a moment. He falls back in bed, making the sheet shift once more.

 

“Well they’re usually not—are you naked under there?”

 

“Yes.” Sherlock gives him a challenging look. Greg looks away, not because of the oncoming threat of a staring contest, but because of the fact that the sheet is now barely even covering Sherlock’s…parts. “Clothes itch.”

 

This is not the first time Greg has seen Sherlock without any clothes. The boy has never had any idea of what shame is. But there is a great difference between a naked three-year-old refusing to put his pants on, and a naked fifteen-year-old who is also refusing to put his pants on. “Can you at least cover yourself properly?” Greg asks in the end.

 

Sherlock doesn’t move an inch so Greg takes the liberty of grabbing one of the pillows that have fallen on the floor and placing it on Sherlock’s Sherlockness. “So,” he says once the worst of Sherlock is hidden from view, “how are you feeling?”

 

Sherlock looks at him like he’s an idiot.

 

“Emotionally!” Greg snaps.

 

To Greg’s annoyance, Sherlock actually has the gall to roll his eyes. “I’m fine,” he mutters. There’s a crease between his brows that tells Greg he’s been asked this far too many times already. “ _Nothing_ happened.”

 

“Sherlock, that guy—”

 

“Is currently in the hospital with a damaged wind pipe,” Sherlock finishes. “Don’t care about him. What I do care about is the Powers case! God, this stupid heat! They closed it already, claimed it was an accident. The world is full of idiots.” He glares at Greg one more time before he disappears beneath the sheets. Greg fights the urge to kick him.

 

“Okay, sorry that you missed your playtime but you have to accept it.”

 

The lump doesn’t answer. Greg tries again.

 

“Look, we’re just worried about you, alright? You don’t have to be such an arse. We’re just trying to help—”

 

“How many times do I have to repeat myself that nothing happened?” Sherlock shouts. To Greg’s disgust and annoyance, Sherlock actually throws the pillow at him. It hits Greg’s face hard and for a moment, Greg’s transported back in time. Only nine years ago it was a shoe that had hit his face and Sherlock’s tantrum was excusable because then, he was only six.

 

“Jesus,” Greg hisses.

 

Sherlock goes back under the covers.

 

“Fine. Go be like that.” Greg rubs a hand on his face. Thank god he’s an only child. “I’m going to go wait for your brother.”

 

He doesn’t expect Sherlock to say anything more. But Sherlock always has to have the last word. Greg hears the sheets rustle as Sherlock unwraps himself once more. “You’re going to tell him today?” he asks.

 

Greg stops in front of the door and turns around. Sherlock is sitting up and looking at him with a blank expression.

 

“Tell him what?”

 

Sherlock’s brows furrow. “Oh,” he says quietly, “of course.”

 

“Tell Mycroft what, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything else. Greg stares at him for a moment but Sherlock just looks back at him and keeps his mouth shut. “I don’t have time for this,” Greg mutters after a minute. He wrenches the door open and steps out.

 

And then Sherlock has to say it. Right when he’s about to close the door behind him, Sherlock opens his mouth and says, “Your scent’s changed.”

 

Greg rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right, like that should mean any—”

 

Oh.

 

_Fuck._

 

* * *

 

He finds his mother in the garden, talking to Dr Robert. Mycroft doesn’t miss the way the doctor looks at her, the way he smiles, like he wants her unfocused attention on him. Despite her age, his mother remains beautiful with her large brown eyes and wavy black hair.  She’s not looking at him, though. She’s looking down at her hands and from her expression, Mycroft can tell she’s not hearing a word the doctor is saying.

 

Mycroft walks quietly but he makes a bit of noise to announce his presence. The doctor looks up, guilt and shame written all over his face. His mother looks at him as well. She looks weary as usual. Sherlock will do that to you.

 

“Well?” he addresses the doctor who stiffens in his seat. _I’m paying you to look after my brother, not sit here and flirt with my mother._ Mycroft doesn’t glare. He just gives the man a pointed look until the doctor breaks into a nervous sweat.

 

“Yes, well, he’s out of the danger zone now.” Dr Robert pauses to clear his throat. It’s really a subtle way to break eye contact with him. “This happens rarely but seeing as your brother’s senses are quite developed, this couldn’t have possibly gone any other way. He should have been tested.”

 

He sees his mother flinch and Mycroft presses his lips together. _Should have taken care of that, shouldn’t have paid so much attention to those legal documents, should have dragged Sherlock out of that school in the first place, people will think you’re not taking care of him._ Mycroft shuts his eyes and does his best to stop his thoughts. Thinking of the things he could have done never works. You have to learn to fix the problem, not dwell on how you could have prevented it.

 

“He’ll be fine after a few days. I give him until Friday,” the doctor continues. “A few rules, though. No Alphas allowed anywhere near his room, family or not. He’s extremely sensitive to scents at the moment. The only ones who can come in are Betas and Omegas. Also, his Alpha, of course. You bonded him early, yes?”

 

Mycroft nods. A small part of him is relieved that Sherlock is too busy throwing up. Without a distraction, his brother won’t last a day locked up in his room. “Will it always be like this?”

 

“No. It won’t be so painful next time but he may have some rashes. He’s also the type that won’t be able to stand suppressants. Best if he stay away from them actually—might have numerous allergic reactions. Not to worry, though. His heats won’t be a bother once he’s properly bonded.” Mycroft pauses and thinks about John. Thankfully, Sherlock is no longer bothered by John’s presence. However, the chances of those two approaching a non-platonic relationship are, at the moment, slim. He wonders again how the doctor who did their pre-bonding found those two compatible.

 

Telling Sherlock that the only way his heats will become tolerable is if he sleeps with John won’t do. The boy won’t hesitate to conduct countless of experiments on himself.

 

The man smiles. Mycroft doesn’t and the grin slowly disappears from the man’s face. “Well,” he says, “I’d best be off then.” Dr Robert shoots his mother a hopeful smile—one that she doesn’t reciprocate--before he disappears.

 

“Where were you?”

 

“Sherlock’s school.” Mycroft takes the seat Dr Robert recently vacated. “They want to kick him out. Authorities say they can’t be held responsible for what happened and Mathews’ parents have filed a complaint. Sherlock did sign a waiver when he enrolled.”

 

“Sherlock began to hate that school as soon as he stepped foot on it.”

 

Mycroft shakes his head. “It’s not that. It’s the idea that they can just make him leave. Sherlock won’t go down without a fight.” He shudders to even think about it. And Sherlock will win, Mycroft knows that. He’ll do his best not because he loves the school, but because it’s conveniently located in London. There’s no denying Sherlock’s love for the city. And Mycroft will help him win, will ensure it, rather. Because if they manage to make Sherlock leave, it won’t just be his brother whose pride will be crushed. Their relatives will talk of Mycroft not being good enough to care for his younger brother. They don’t know him, don’t know how wild and bratty Sherlock can be. All they see when they look at Sherlock is a young man without a father at his side.

 

Mycroft sighs. “You know him,” he says.

 

“I don’t.”

 

Mycroft says nothing more because it’s not really much of a lie. She doesn’t know Sherlock either, can’t even bring herself to spend more than an hour in the same room with him. It’s not that he annoys her, not like how Father felt about his brother. It’s worse. She’s afraid of him, of both of them actually. People keep saying a child should never fear a parent but what’s more terrible is a parent fearing her own flesh and blood.

 

He doesn’t know who he should discipline. Sherlock for causing so much trouble or his mother for almost never being there for them. Choosing is hard; they both have their reasons. It isn’t like his mother has it easy. She’s not a Holmes, and even though it was their father who broke the agreement in the first place, their relatives still see her as the intruder. There is also the fact that Mycroft made it worse by making him leave. For Sherlock he might add. But if he hadn’t done it then both Sherlock and Father would have just felt trapped and it would have ended with Sherlock being the one to leave.

 

* * *

 

 

Greg pauses when he hears the front gates screech open. He watches as a sleek black Mercedes makes its way up the driveway. _Must be Mycroft’s. Has to be his._

 

His fingers twitch at his thigh and he thinks, briefly, that he’s in desperate need for a cigarette. But, ah, he shouldn’t smoke anymore. Right? Greg grits his teeth. He’s in desperate need to call one of his friends as well but that would lead to a trip down the local pub and he shouldn’t be drinking either.

 

God, this is difficult. He’s not even sure—Maybe Sherlock’s mistaken—But he would know of all people since he’s in heat and—

 

Shit.

 

The panicked part of his mind wonders about the when and how. The latter is easy enough to explain. He didn’t attend all those sex ed classes for nothing. The when is harder because they’ve always been careful. There was that one time, however, but that was, oh, it can’t possibly happen after one time.

 

Can it?

 

Greg scratches the side of his neck lightly where the permanent bond mark is, barely hidden by the upturned collar of his jacket. He presses his fingers against it, wincing slightly at how tender it is.

 

He can see the driver getting out know and Greg turns away just as he opens the door for Mycroft. He feels strange and he has half a mind to go back and tell Mycroft his suspicions. But he fights it off and half-runs to the back where his bike is parked.

* * *

 

John is here. Sherlock can tell without getting up from the bed. He can’t smell him yet. It’s already Friday and while his senses are still highly enhanced, it’s now impossible to detect anyone not in the vicinity of the house. But Sherlock can tell he’s here because he allows himself access to that part of him that is always, _always_ attuned to John.

 

 _Anxious, scared, miserable._ Sherlock scowls at each. John is so boring when it comes to emotions. It isn’t that he has them that makes him boring. Because no matter how much Sherlock wants to deny the fact that he was born with any sense of emotions, they’re part of being human. And at the end of the day, Sherlock is still a human being, though much, much smarter than the average. No, it’s the fact that John can’t learn to shut them down that irritates Sherlock. It’s getting more and more difficult for him to block John from his thoughts.

 

It’s strange. The link doesn’t happen until a pair is permanently bonded. There are some exceptions but they're quite rare. He’s observed Greg and Mycroft countless of times already and they often miscommunicate. John may be annoying at times due to his constant nagging about Sherlock’s health but Sherlock always knows what he’s talking about.

 

He doesn’t want to think about what this might mean.

 

 _Fear, relief, fear again._ Sherlock closes his eyes and strains his ears. Downstairs, albeit faintly, he hears the front doors open. Judging from John’s emotions, John is currently talking to Mycroft. Meddling fat git, Sherlock thinks as he rolls onto his back. He wonders if Greg told him. Sherlock has tried contacting him, both his mobile and his landline. No one answers, meaning Greg has probably already told his parents. Why he won’t tell Mycroft is beyond Sherlock.

 

He has to get out of this room and find Greg. That Powers case was his chance damn it and nature had to take its course. He groans at the loss and rolls again and again until he transforms into a giant white sushi roll. Sherlock stops when the sheet is tight enough and his head is hanging over the edge of the bed. The blood rushes to his head and it helps enhance his senses even more so that now he can hear John walking up the stairs and down the corridor, alone thankfully. There is something wrong with his steps, though. John is walking slowly, favouring his right side more than his left like normal. He stops and so does Sherlock because all of a sudden there is a sharp pain at his side that is gone so quickly Sherlock at first thinks that he imagined it.

 

Still, it is enough to make him fall off the bed and the pain becomes real, only this time it’s his head that’s hurting. “Sherlock?” John ran and now he’s knocking on his door. It’s too much for a moment. Sherlock clamps his hands over his ears to block out the noise.

 

“Sherlock?” The noise stops. Sherlock lowers his hands. His cheek is throbbing. He’ll have a hideous bruise their tomorrow.

 

“You fell down,” John says from the other side of the door. It’s not a question.

 

“You’re hurt,” Sherlock counters as he makes his way to the door. John doesn’t argue. Sherlock is tempted to open the door and see for himself but he knows Mycroft will interfere. He’s not deemed safe to go out yet. Mycroft won’t hesitate to throw John out and lock Sherlock in his room. Stupid Mycroft. It’s not like he’s going to rip John’s clothes off once the door is opened. He smells good, oh yes. He smells like rain and grass and dark soil over the faint sweet scent Sherlock knows is his. But Sherlock can control himself and he never lets himself get pulled in by the Alpha scent of John.

 

“I got into a fight,” John admits. His breathing is heavy and when he shifts his weight, he winces. _First bruises, second degree bruise on his thigh, hit by an object possibly steel or wooden, broken ribs, strain in the peroneal tendons in left ankle, running maybe._ Sherlock shuts John off completely because of the phantom pains that hit his body.

 

“You don’t get into fights.”

 

“ _You_ do.” He can tell John is leaning against the door, his back pressed against it. Sherlock does the same and slides to the floor. “I didn’t intend to hit the other guy. But then you were…I thought of you and I felt you were angry so…”

 

“Oh.”

 

It goes unspoken. John should know by now that the reason for this is Mathews. Sherlock can feel John’s hesitation, his longing to ask. _Don’t_. He hopes John gets it. He doesn’t want to talk about what happened because nothing did. Oh yes, there’s no denying the fact that something could have. But Sherlock doesn’t think about that much because when he does, he feels strange. His throat goes dry and his stomach lurches and he doesn’t like it when it does that. He doesn’t delete the incident, however. Sherlock has tried but it’s a stubborn memory so he pushes it to the back of his mind, there but barely noticeable.

 

John gets it. Sherlock knows he does. But John is stubborn. That is the very first thing Sherlock deduced about his personality upon meeting him. “I’m sorry,” he begins but Sherlock cuts him off a loud huff.

 

“Had you been there you would have killed every single Alpha within a five-meter radius of me.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It’s nature.”

 

John is quiet for a long time. Two minutes actually but it’s long enough for Sherlock to deem things boring. He stretches out one leg and begins to scratch at a rash that has formed on his knee. He’d been wearing jeans when it formed. _Skin irritation to denim during estrus. Replace clothes with cotton._

 

“Even if it wasn’t instinct, I’d have done it,” John says finally. Sherlock’s hand stills.

 

They’re just words and John’s just playing the hero’s part. But for a moment it feels like it’s too warm and his face feels like it’s burning. “Oh,” is all he replies. It’s kind of…nice to hear someone say that. He thinks for a moment that this might not be such a good thing but he locked up morals long ago and too much effort is required to retrieve the information.

 

Anyway, it’s not really that important.

* * *

 

“Sherlock?”

 

John contemplates knocking on the door. For all he knows, Sherlock may have gone back to his ‘mind palace’ (John refuses to ask). The last time John interrupted his thought process, John nearly got a concussion from the heavy ashtray Sherlock threw at his head. He’s not supposed to agitate Sherlock, anyway, because Sherlock might wrench open the door and throw something at him again. And, well, John can’t deny that he’s more than a little tempted to open the door as well. Sherlock smells fantastic, and while the more rational side of John’s brain can’t help but feel horrified at his thoughts of wondering whether or not Sherlock _tastes_ just as good as he smells, there is no denying the fact that John is highly attracted to him right now. He thanks the British government for all those self-control classes he took. He can smell Sherlock’s unwillingness and it’s a dash of cold water to the Alpha side of him.

 

John settles for awkwardly patting the door and pretending its Sherlock’s back before making his way out of the west wing. It’s a slow and painful journey. John can’t remember much of what happened but the golf club in his hand must have been stolen at one point because none of the other guys have broken ribs. “Alpha fights do that to you, Johnny,” Bill told him while Mike manoeuvred them to the nearest hospital, “You get lost in adrenaline and then you end up black and blue near a garbage bin.”

 

Fortunately, they ended up in a hospital where a doctor stitched a deep gash in his hand—which he ripped open after getting a call from Greg about Sherlock. John hates that he can’t ball it into a fist. He still wants to punch the guy who tried to take advantage of Sherlock, crushed windpipe or not. It isn’t just because it’s Sherlock. They’re not complete Neanderthals. An Alpha can easily sense when an Omega is unwilling. And the fact that Mathews tried to rape Sherlock, an Omega who’s clearly already bonded, albeit temporarily, disgusts John greatly.

 

He clenches his hands unconsciously. “Ow,” he hisses. Right. He doesn’t need a needle poking through his skin again.

 

He wonders what his mother will say when she sees the state of him. Box his ears, possibly, the way she used to when he was being a brat. Harry will be fascinated, no doubt. Then tease him for looking like a punching bag. He wonders how they’ll react when—if—they find out about what happened to Sherlock. Sherlock’s family doesn’t interact with his much, apart from talking about Sherlock and him being, well, Sherlock and John. Mostly it’s because he comes from a family of Betas. Hopefully, it’s not because they aren’t rich.

 

John hasn’t thought of his father in years and he’s thought of Sherlock’s far too much. He can’t imagine the two of them arranging John and Sherlock to bond, can barely even imagine them as friends. His mother had told him they’d met in the early days of his father’s service to queen and country. John didn’t get much chance to know Siger Holmes very well but because he left, John sees him as a huge git, a stark contrast to his father’s kind and caring character.

 

John’s train of thought comes to a halt when he catches a whiff of an earthy scent, combined with cigarettes and leather. “Greg?” he calls and sure enough, Greg is here, rounding the corner, looking a little dishevelled in his battered leather jacket and vintage band shirt.

 

“John?” Greg’s brows furrow. “You look like shit.”

 

John cuts off his joking remark and instead, says, “So do you, actually.”

 

Greg looks awful, like he hasn’t slept in weeks. There are dark shadows beneath his eyes and his skin is startlingly pale. His dark hair is a tangled mess as if he’s been running his hands through it for hours. “You okay?” John asks and Greg laughs without any real humour behind it.

 

“Me? Fine, fine, just…uni, you know?” Greg grins at him. His eyes seem to be pleading with John not to push it even though John desperately wants to point out that Greg is never stressed when it comes to school.

 

“You talked to Sherlock?”

 

John nods. Talk isn’t really the word for it as John didn’t get to say any of the things he’d originally planned on saying. Greg is looking at him curiously and a little anxiously. John wants to ask but whatever it is, it doesn’t seem to be any concern of John’s.

 

“Well…I better catch a train back to London,” John says as Greg shoots him a relieved look. “Uh, say goodbye to Mycroft for me.” As if Mycroft doesn’t already know he’s about to leave.

 

Greg nods distractedly then waves him goodbye before he heads to the office that used to occupy Siger Holmes.  

 

* * *

 

Greg’s distress is quite evident to Mycroft. It doesn’t just show on his face. It shows in his clothes—the dark jeans he abhors because of the white paint stain at the left knee and the shirt that looks much too ragged to even fit Greg’s silly notion of style. It shows in his hands as well. When he takes a sit and puts them on his lap, Mycroft sees the stiffness in his fingers and flaky white skin covering his fingertips. _He’s been playing all night. Greg never does that unless he’s highly stressed._

 

Greg looks at him and Mycroft sits up a little straighter. But he deflates immediately then says, without looking at Mycroft, “I need an icebreaker.”

 

Wordlessly, Mycroft gets up and approaches the shelf that once housed the skull. In its place sits a replica of priceless vase from the Ming dynasty. Mycroft puts it on the desk and leans back to watch Greg hastily take the cover off and take out a chocolate bar. “You too,” he says as he unwraps it.

 

“I shouldn’t—”

 

“Just do it, My,” Greg mutters. Mycroft sighs then obeys and takes out a chocolate bar as well. He should have gotten rid of these things hours ago but Sherlock likes to tease him in the most childish ways by stashing sweets all over the study.

 

An amiable silence falls over them. This reminds Mycroft of the times when they were much younger and a year’s difference seemed like ten for the two of them. Greg had, unlike Sherlock, not resented him and instead had looked at him like an older brother. He’d often sought Mycroft’s opinions on things while they ate whatever it was Greg had managed to steal from the pantry.

 

Mycroft stops after three bites. Greg does so as well but the chocolate bar is still pressed against his lips, smearing chocolate on them.

 

“You have a problem.” It’s not a question. “What is it?”

 

“Deduce it,” Greg challenges.

 

Ah, well, this is new. Greg doesn’t like being under the spotlight. He expresses his distaste for it during the times Sherlock becomes bored and Greg is the only one there whose life he can pick through with a few observations. Mycroft does it as well, but unlike his brother, he has a filter and he can make himself stop.

 

Mycroft scans Greg quickly but before he can even piece anything together, Greg interrupts him.

 

“How do you feel about being a parent?”


	8. Aftermath 2

Mycroft doesn’t choke on his own spit. He does, however, sit there staring at Greg with his mouth half-open for a solid six point fifty-one seconds. Greg doesn’t stare back. Instead, he finds something of great interest somewhere to the right of Mycroft’s head.

 

The chocolate bar slips from his fingers, breaking him out of the shock.

 

“But you said—”

 

“I know what I said,” Greg growls, interrupting him once more. He takes a huge bite out of the chocolate in his hands and chews rather vigorously. “But I got the pills from Luke and he must have made a mistake and given me some antibiotics.” Greg sighs and wearily runs one hand through his hair. “I think that’s why I was feeling so exhausted for a week.”

 

“Greg,” Mycroft sighs angrily. He’s not entirely sure who he’s mad at. Greg for buying the pills from his friend Luke Rochewell or the seller himself, “why didn’t you just buy them from a pharmacy?”

 

“Luke’s dad runs the pharmacy.” Greg grins wryly. “Unfortunately, Luke was left in charge that night.”

 

“He could have given you something dangerous!”

 

Greg shrugs. “I know but nothing happened. Well, _something_ happened obviously.” He narrows his eyes at Mycroft. “Don’t you dare do anything to Luke. It was a rookie mistake.”

 

Mycroft purses his lips but doesn’t tell Greg how he’d like to send Luke to the Himalayas and leave him there to possibly die of frostbite. That is not important—there is also the fact that Greg is fiercely protective of his friends, despite their moments of idiocy. There are many other important things, his work for instance, and of course the problem with Sherlock. He can’t abandon either of these, especially Sherlock because as much as it pains Mycroft, he owes Sherlock, will probably owe him for the rest of his life. However, this is much, much more important as it involves Greg and a bundle of cells that will, in a few months time, shape into a child. _His_ child, in fact.

 

Mycroft does not know what to think of it.

 

“I…told my parents already,” Greg says when Mycroft doesn’t speak for a few minutes. He stuffs his hands deep inside his pockets and adds, “they were really surprised.”

 

Mycroft winces. He has always been in good terms with Greg’s parents but Mycroft doubts they felt joy upon hearing that their only son was already carrying a child. “It’s not that they’re mad at you,” Greg says quickly, “just, you know, shocked. Actually, I think mum was expecting it long before this since we got together so young.” Greg laughs nervously. “They’re not mad. Just worried it might be too much for me. For us, I mean. That is…if you…”

 

“What do you mean by ‘if’?” Mycroft’s frown deepens. Greg doesn’t need to say the words. Mycroft can read it on his face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

The tension in Greg’s shoulders disappears and he looks at Mycroft with relief. It’s still tainted with a bit of uncertainty though and when Mycroft prompts him to explain, Greg says, “Well, it’s just that this is unexpected and you hate that, don’t you? I kind of had some thoughts that…that,” Greg falters a bit then falls silent when his eyes find Mycroft’s once more.

 

“That you’d want to get rid of it,” Greg finishes, averting his eyes. His hands are clenched on his lap. Mycroft wants to unfurl them and knead his palms with his thumbs until the crescent marks his fingernails have left on his skin fade. But the words feel like a punch to his gut, and the next are like a knife twisting inside it.

 

“Might want to get rid of it,” Greg corrects, laughing again in that same nervous tone, “I mean, you already have so many things on your mind and you’re always working so maybe you don’t want this. And I know I’m still in uni, but it’s my last year and I’m against abortion, My.” Greg’s eyes and voice are pleading. “It’s a shock for me, too, and I don’t know a thing about being a parent. Hell, I didn’t even grow up with a _dog_. Maybe it’s just instinct because I’ve never even thought about this.” He pauses. Mycroft doesn’t dare point out that he knows it’s not just instinct. Greg’s always loved kids. His patience with Sherlock is proof of that. “But please, My, if you don’t want to take responsibility just don’t ask me to get rid of it because I’ll never get over it.”

 

Greg finishes with a shaky exhale. He looks like he’s about to cry. Only Mycroft has never seen Greg cry. Well, once, if you count that time during their pre-bonding ceremony. Greg had cried like any six-year-old then, all snot and tears and attention-seeking sobs. He wonders briefly how Greg cries now. Is he quiet or does he revert to child-like tears? Mycroft has seen many people cry. He’s seen Sherlock do it, though Sherlock never cries without using his tears to manipulate someone (usually John when they were younger). He’s also seen John cry but that was because Sherlock placed about fifty chopped onions in the guestroom when John had stolen his violin. Mycroft finds that he never wants to see Greg cry, ever, so he leans forward and takes one of the clenched fists in both of his hands.

 

“Again, Greg, I’m not going anywhere.” He thinks about it, about having a kid, maybe a little girl with Greg’s eyes and his hair. She’ll be intelligent, certainly. It doesn’t seem like a bad thing at all even though Mycroft has always thought that he’ll never have kids, not after Sherlock. It will be difficult, of course. Not the part about the source of income. Mycroft doesn’t stay in the government just for the fun of it. But it will be difficult because they’re young and Greg’s still in uni and there are so many things Mycroft has to do. And there will be bickering, a lot of it.

 

Mycroft closes his eyes and pushes aside all the negatives. Because in the end Greg will be there.

 

“We do this together,” he adds, “or we don’t do this at all.”

 

Greg smiles at him. “This will be hard.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I’m going to have to give up smoking.”

 

One of the positives. Mycroft feels himself smile, earning a snort from Greg.

 

“You,” Greg says, weary and happy at once. He leans his forehead against Mycroft’s, “you’re…amazing.”

 

“Thank you.”        

 

He’s too close so all Mycroft sees is the dark brown of his eyes. They remind him of coffee, almost black, and combined with his earthy scent Mycroft feels his head spin.

 

“Let’s get married.”

 

“Wait,” Greg says, blinking, “what?”

 

* * *

 

Jason Mathews manages to smirk despite the neck brace. The smirk immediately turns into a wince when, beneath the table, Sherlock delivers a swift kick to the leg of his chair. The older boy teeters for a moment before he crashes on the floor with a loud thud that is nearly masked by his mother’s shrieking. It must hurt terribly. Sherlock is quite glad that the blow wasn’t enough to knock him unconscious. Mathews will feel that for days.

 

“Sherlock,” Whitman warns. The headmaster looks like he can’t decide whether to punish him or to look at him pityingly. Sherlock tries a smile. He’s good with them, imitating smiles that is, despite the fact that he seldom finds a reason to do so. This smile is not the usual charming smile he uses, but a weak, almost fearful one, the kind he absolutely loathes. It works, however. The scowl disappears from Whitman’s face and is soon replaced with another sad look.

 

“You little cunt!” Mathews snarls once he’s back in his chair. Whitman shoots him a glare that is just enough to keep Mathews from reaching out to snap Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock pretends to flinch.

 

“Stop it, Jason.” Whitman turns to Mathews’ mother. “I’ll need to speak with Sherlock alone if that’s alright with you?”

 

Obviously it’s not alright. Mrs Mathews shoots Sherlock a nasty look then escorts herself and her son out of the office. As soon as the door is shut, Whitman lets out a long sigh of relief. He buries his face in his hands for a while. Sherlock uses the time to scan the office. _Alpha, loves his job, happily married._ Sherlock’s eyes stop at a picture frame. _Happily married with three kids despite having many affairs._ The youngest boy has a slighter build than his brothers and softer features. _Three Alphas, one Omega._

 

Whitman puts his hands down again. “Where’s your mother?” he asks. Sherlock answers with a shrug.

 

“Your brother?”

 

Sherlock shakes his head. Inwardly, he smiles at the distress in Whitman’s face. A very loving father, obviously. Thank god Mycroft’s too busy with Greg or things would have gone all wrong for him. “Oh dear,” Whitman mutters. He leans back and stares at Sherlock uncomfortably.

 

“Well,” he says after a while. He clears his throat once then continues, “the Mathews won’t press charges if you don’t. Jason will remain in school, though he’ll be taken out of the rugby team. And so will you if you want to, that is.”

 

Sherlock does his best not to roll his eyes. Of course he wants to stay. Not because of the school; Sherlock doesn’t care about that. But it’s conveniently located in London which, compared to Sussex, has a high crime rate which makes it not boring.

 

Sherlock tries another one of those loathsome smiles instead. “I’d love to stay.”

 

“Are you sure because—”

 

“I’m sure, Mr Whitman.”

 

The disappointment can be seen clearly in Whitman’s eyes. The headmaster has always been wary of him and Sherlock knows that he’s the reason for the extra white hairs at Whitman’s temples. By the time he graduates, Sherlock thinks that he’ll be completely grey. He isn’t cruel, at least, not as much as his peers think him to be. But Whitman, Sherlock thinks, deserves it for making him sign that waiver and for looking at him like he should be clinging to Mycroft at all times. There is also the fact that Whitman, despite being a loving father, is actually a bit of a crook. Sherlock can literally smell money in his hands, most of them not his own. It’s beautiful to think that you can find corruption almost everywhere. It is even more beautiful to think of the many ways you can blackmail someone.

 

Sherlock smiles again. He didn’t come here to blackmail Whitman, anyway. He came here to charm him.

 

It works, of course.

 

It is nearly noon by the time Sherlock exits the headmaster’s office. Students who pass by him look at him warily but he pays no attention to them. They aren’t important and Whitman is the only person who gets to see him act like a weakling. He wraps John’s scarf tighter around himself and moves until he’s past the front gates.

 

* * *

 

 

Billy isn’t the first person Mr Holmes paid to do his bidding, but he’s certainly the most eager to do the job. He likes Mr Holmes, likes how he gets straight to the point, likes how he doesn’t inch away from the likes of them. He likes that even though he’s young he seems to know what Billy not only needs, but wants as well. At first, Billy had been dead frightened of the youth for catching him red-handed with Mr Holmes’ Rolex. He’d given it back immediately and to his luck, Mr Holmes had actually given him money and told him to act as his eyes and ears. His brothers had made fun of him for accepting it and for being frightened of him but Billy knows that Mr Holmes can be very frightening when he wants to be. He’s already terrifying without even trying.

 

Thankfully, his brothers listen. He’s got six of them, five of them older, the other younger by a year. They make fun of him but they don’t dare test Mr Holmes’ patience. Not that they never tried, of course. His older brother Mitch tried to pickpocket Mr Holmes to prove his point to Billy and he’d been cut down by insults. Billy isn’t even sure if they should be called insults because he’s quite certain that insults are, at a level, supposed to be false. And Mitch sleeping with Beth, his best mate’s girl sure isn’t fiction.

 

Billy’s not sure how he finds him but sure enough Mr Holmes is here again in that posh school uniform of his. He looks thinner than the last time Billy saw him which is saying something. “Found a new home again,” he says when he’s close enough. It isn’t a question, Billy knows that. So he just nods and tries not to feel too self-conscious as he stuffs someone’s wallet and mobile in the pockets of his too-baggy jeans.

 

Mr Holmes takes him to a diner. The last time, Mr Holmes treated him in a fancy place. But Billy’s clothes are too shabby and at least two-sizes too big and he’s got most of London’s dirt on his skin. He doesn’t mind. All that rich stuff made him sick. Also, he’s certain that even Mr Holmes isn’t rich enough to get him through the door. Or rather Mycroft Holmes isn’t rich enough. Billy has never seen Mr Holmes pay in cash. He keeps with him a credit card that holds someone else’s name and money.

 

Mr Holmes lets him have anything he wants. Billy’s greedy. It’s allowed, he thinks, to be greedy when you’ve got six brothers and there’s never enough to feed all of them. Still, he takes small bites of his meal. Not because he’s embarrassed. But it feels kind of wrong to eat when the person in front of you is just sitting there, looking at you.

 

A pale hand lightly taps the tabletop. Billy sets his fork down.

 

“I can’t be bothered to deal with the likes of him,” Mr Holmes says as he slides a picture across the table.

 

“You want us to hurt him?”

 

Mr Holmes rolls his eyes. “Paranoia is better than a moment of pain,” he says.

 

Billy is only ten-years-old but he already knows what Mr Holmes means. It’s easy to slide a hand inside Jason Mathews’ pockets, even easier to make him flinch when a knife skims his clothes. His brothers like it and they like the idea of being paid for making one man spend his whole life constantly looking over his shoulder even more. It must be worse than death, he thinks as his brother sends Jason running away, to have the underbelly of London turn against you.

 

* * *

 

“I heard Mathews transferred.”

 

His brother is seated (no, _sprawled_ ) in his chair with a Dostoyevsky novel in one hand. There’s a window behind him and through it, the sun spills into the room, casting a golden glow over Sherlock. He looks harmless, angelic even. Mycroft has learned long ago that appearances can be deceiving.

 

“Hmm, yes, Trevor told me.” Sherlock doesn’t look away from his novel. Mycroft knows that he’s not even reading it.

 

“I also heard that he’s developed a fear of London.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t hide it from Mycroft. He just turns his head slightly, enough so that he can fix a steely gaze on Mycroft. He raises an eyebrow and he smiles that smile that warns Mycroft that he’s meddling again. “Strange, don’t you think?” he says. “London’s a nice place.”

 

_It is a nice place. Nice until every single homeless person starts to follow you wherever you go and starts breathing down your neck._

 

Mycroft has his own network of ambitious people who want to climb further up the political ladder. They’re frightening, his people. But there is something about Sherlock’s network that is absolutely terrifying. They’re not invisible, the people Sherlock hire, but they’re the ones who you glance at only once. And there’s so many of them. You’d go mad if even just one of them began to track your every move.

 

There is a part of Mycroft that wants to put a stop to all of this. There is an even bigger part of him that can’t help but admire Sherlock’s work. Fifteen-years-old and he already has people eating out of the palm of his hand. It’s amazing and Mycroft must admit that it has its benefits. With so many people on Sherlock’s side, the chance of him being mugged during one his little escapades is quite unlikely.

 

But at the end of the day, Sherlock is still his little brother.

 

“It’s a dangerous game you’re playing,” he says. Sherlock sits up and glares at him.

 

“I like danger.”

 

“What will I tell Mummy if one of your…ah, employees forgets himself and finishes what Mathews failed to do.”

 

The book slams shut. Several people turn to look.

 

“Shut your fat mouth, Mycroft.”

 

People have often mistaken Sherlock’s rage as something volatile, an explosion of sorts. This isn’t true. An angered Sherlock will throw things at you or curl up on the sofa and sulk like a child. A furious Sherlock means being in the presence of a glacier. Sherlock’s anger is cold and deliberate and until he gets bored, you’ll find yourself suffering in the worst ways possible. Mycroft has never seen Sherlock become overly furious at him but there are times when Sherlock almost snaps. Like now for instance. His body is tense, his eyes alert. He looks, for all the world, like a great big wildcat ready to strike.

 

Sherlock will never say it—he’s too proud for that. But to Mycroft, it’s clear that he was shaken by what happened to Mathews. It’s worse to think of the ‘what could have’s’ than to truly experience it. Sherlock doesn’t have nightmares nor has Mycroft ever found him crying in fear. But sometimes, he flinches, ever so slightly at skin on skin contact. It is odd to associate the Sherlock now to who he was when he was much younger—a boy starved for human touch.

 

“Sirs?”

 

The waitress eyes them nervously. Sherlock doesn’t back down, not really, but his rage deflates a little so that there is no longer any danger of him causing a scene. One glance at the waitress makes him bristle, however, and Mycroft has to intervene before Sherlock can say anything.

 

“Let it go. It’s been years.”

 

“Not every cheating person reminds me of Father, Mycroft,” Sherlock snaps. “That woman was irritating me by breathing too loudly.” Sherlock sniffs and looks at the woman. “Gambler. She hates her boss, hates working here. Saw her having a row with him a while ago and her face was completely blank. Hunger in her eyes when people tip her, not delight or gratefulness. Either she’ll spend it all gambling tonight or she’ll go on a date with the person she’s cheating with—ah, the last one, then. Recent haircut, earrings far too expensive for what befits her social class. She’s got a date tonight.”

 

Mycroft is once more impressed. “Good.”

 

“Don’t praise me. I’m not one of your dogs.”

 

“Not a dog, no. But you’re behaviour’s not far from being animalistic.”

 

Sherlock’s hands tighten around his novel until his knuckles burn white.


	9. A Celebration and One Awkward Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two for one day because this one is short.

John thinks it’s ludicrous that Sherlock has chosen this day to act like an ice statue. He is in the estate once more, only this time, for a happy occasion. Or rather, an occasion that should be happy. Weddings are supposed to be happy, right? And the Holmeses, despite their strangeness, actually know how to be happy. There is classical music and good wine and a lot of half-drunk relatives who aren’t half as annoying when they’re inebriated. But John can’t enjoy it, not when he can feel Sherlock’s cold rage slowly edging towards his own emotions.

 

Sherlock’s not angry at him, thankfully. It’s all Mycroft’s fault and John knows this because he heard Sherlock mutter the words ‘fat’ and ‘git’ with more vehemence than usual, which is saying something. John has no idea what Mycroft did or said to make Sherlock furious with him, but then again, John never really knows how Mycroft manages to tick Sherlock off. All John knows is that he’s getting a little sick of it, of Sherlock being his brattiest and of Mycroft pretending that his little brother doesn’t look like he’s set out to murder him with his bare hands.

 

Only that’s wrong. Sherlock will never murder anyone with his bare hands because John’s instincts to bloody _protect_ will take over. Off the Alpha mode, he’s, well, not really afraid of Mycroft. Wary, maybe. He’s not entirely sure what to call that strange feeling he gets when he’s in Mycroft’s presence, which is comparable to that feeling he has when he knows his bladder is only half-full and yet his mind is telling him that he must take a nice long piss. It’s not exactly something you can ask your friends, not when you describe it in that way. However, John knows that if he lets his baser instincts take over and Mycroft has done something very horrible to Sherlock, John won’t even think twice about punching him.

 

He’s often wondered about it, punching Mycroft, that is. Not that John wants to do it (okay, maybe the thought crossed his mind once or twice). But he does wonder if Mycroft will punch back if someone hits him. Except for Sherlock, Holmeses aren’t particularly physically violent. An image of Mycroft reciprocating with insults and frank observations through a bloody nose makes John laugh.

 

“What’s so funny?” a voice asks. John lowers his hands from his eyes and looks at Greg a little blearily. He’s not drunk—dear God, he’ll never end up in that state in front of Sherlock’s family—but he’s been sitting like this for the past hour or so. Harry left him moments ago after John declared he’d had enough of dancing. He can see her from where he’s sitting, boldly flirting with a teenager who has Sherlock’s curly hair despite the fact that Harry is probably four years younger than her.  

 

“Nothing,” he says as his eyes again drop to Greg’s stomach. It’s no longer flat. There’s a slight bulge to it now but the person who tailored Greg’s suit has managed to disguise it. John looks up and sees that Greg’s smile has turned into an amused look.

 

“Sorry, sorry, just…a lot to take in.”

 

“You’re the first person I told outside my family and Mycroft’s and you still can’t get over it?” Greg’s tone is teasing, not accusing. It _is_ a lot to take it. John can no longer look at Greg as a guy who smells of leather jackets and cigarettes and cheap hair dye. He can no longer even look at him without looking at his stomach first. Greg is pregnant. _Pregnant_! And to someone who hasn’t been told—meaning almost everyone in the room—he just looks like Greg. It makes John want to stick a piece of paper to Greg’s back with the words I’M GREG AND I’M CARRYING THE SPAWN OF THE BRITISH GOVERNMENT.               

 

Perhaps that champagne’s stronger than he thought.

 

“I saw. Sherlock yelling at you, I mean.”

 

“Jesus, Greg, _everyone_ saw.” John laughs cheerlessly. “What was I supposed to do? Yell back at him in front of his relatives? He’s not mad at me but I still have to suffer for it.”

 

Greg wrinkles his nose. “Hey, I have to listen to Mycroft complain about his brother all the time. You’re not the only one who’s suffering.”

 

John looks over his empty flute. Mycroft is at the far end of the room with their mother, talking to a small group of men who look like they should always stand behind a podium. He looks annoyed, no doubt embarrassed by Sherlock’s outburst moments ago. His eyes keep moving from the men to Greg to the doors leading to the balcony where Sherlock is no doubt smoking up a storm.

 

“Mycroft looks really pissed.”

 

“He’ll be up all night telling me how Sherlock ruined this day, how annoying his brother is, etc.” Greg slides in the seat that Harry occupied a while ago. “I told him once to just send Sherlock to a boarding school in Switzerland to shut him up and he told me that he had to keep constant watch on his little brother.” Greg laughs again but John doesn’t join in. He can’t help but think how Sherlock would hate Switzerland. He’d be miserable there, surrounded by other posh kids, never fitting in. They wouldn’t let him have his experiments. There is something sad about Sherlock not being allowed to dissect the corpse of a poor, unfortunate animal.

 

“He’d hate Switzerland,” John finds himself saying.

 

“Yeah, he would.”

 

Greg leans back but he doesn’t slump in his chair, not like before. John wonders what it feels like to have something growing inside you.

 

“How come you haven’t told anyone yet?” he asks, gesturing to Greg’s middle.

 

Greg shrugs. It’s supposed to be nonchalant, John thinks, but Greg’s body has suddenly gone tense. He moves closer to John and says, “I didn’t even want to get married yet.”

 

“What? Why? Is it because of Mycroft?”

 

“My?” Greg looks at him incredulously. “Of course it’s not because of Mycroft.” He sighs then adds, “But I didn’t want to get rid of the kid and…Damn it, John, these people are so old-fashioned. They’d look at us differently and they’d treat my kid like a bastard. Why do you think we haven’t told them?”

 

“Oh. But it’s not so bad, right?”

 

“Well, no, not really. This whole marriage thing is just to make everything official. You know, legal documents and crap like that.” Greg’s no longer smiling and the fact that he’s not even attempting to disturbs John. “I hate them, you know? My hates them, too. They look at me—at us—like we shouldn’t be here, like we’re not good enough. Just because we don’t come from old money families like them. I get it worse than you since My’s older and most of the inheritance goes to him. I hate being in the same room as them but My keeps insisting.”

 

John smiles wryly. “We’re unfortunate,” he says.

 

“No we’re not. My and Sherlock are the unlucky ones, being related to people who have money up their arses.”

 

“I suppose.” He’d rather be poor, he thinks, than live in a house full of rich, judgemental people who watch your every move. It’s no wonder Mycroft’s such a control freak and Sherlock’s so rebellious. Sherlock doesn’t really fit in, would never fit in despite all Mycroft’s attempts, and John would definitely never pass for one of them. He likes the outdoors, likes to roughhouse and play rugby and drink with his friends. Every part of him screams average male Alpha uni student.

 

“Cheers for not being born in a family of douschebags,” Greg says as he hands him a new flute.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock is halfway through his second pack when John goes to him, Sherlock’s coat draped over one shoulder. He’s seated on the parapet, leaning forward slightly so John takes extra precaution as he walks toward him. He isn’t alone, to John’s surprise. A familiar-looking boy is seated next to him, facing John. He’s smoking as well though from the greenish tinge to his skin, he looks like he’s about to be sick from it.

 

“Hi,” the boy greets. John remembers him as the same boy he saw when Sherlock was hospitalized months ago. He looks from Sherlock to John warily then says, “Uh, I’d better go.”

 

John thinks for a moment that he doesn’t want him to go. When Sherlock’s in one of his moods and John happens to be alone with him, they tend to have a row. John doesn’t want to fight with Sherlock. It requires too much energy and he doesn’t want another month of Sherlock not speaking to him and of him pretending that it doesn’t bother him. He’s eighteen, he’s too old for this. And Sherlock’s too old for this, too, but the thing is, he’s a teenager with the emotional maturity of a five-year-old. And he’s Sherlock. He’ll never change.

 

“Thought you’d be cold,” John attempts.

 

“You thought wrong, as always.” Smoke escapes Sherlock’s lips and John tries very hard not to cough in his face. He turns his head away and breaths the cool night air before he faces Sherlock once more. Liar, John thinks. Sherlock is freezing out here; his lips are practically turning blue. John knows that Sherlock hates the gesture but John still drapes the coat around Sherlock’s shoulders. Fuck it if Sherlock thinks he shouldn’t have. Sherlock is freezing and John isn’t going to let him die of hypothermia just because he’s too proud to accept something from John.

 

Sherlock glares at him but he doesn’t take the coat off. “Go away,” he snarls, his eyes flashing dangerously. It’s overly familiar and John is so, so tired of it.

 

“Stop it,” he says harshly. Sherlock actually looks stunned and John quickly takes advantage of it. “Look, I don’t care that you’re fighting with your brother again. I don’t care that you hate almost everyone in this party but you’ve embarrassed not only your brother, but your mum and Greg as well. And me, too. I hate it that when you’re fighting with Mycroft you attack me like I’m some punching bag.” John pauses. Sherlock is looking at him warily. “And I hate that you smoke so much,” he finishes lamely. “Just…they’re not good for you.”

 

Sherlock is still staring at him with that thoughtful expression on his face. It makes John feel uncomfortable and very aware that they’re alone and that Sherlock might punch him. It also makes John very aware that Sherlock has weird lips. It isn’t possible, John thinks, to have lips like that. It’s a girly mouth and it contradicts the sharper features of Sherlock’s face. They’re heart-shaped, maybe, and they’re a little pink, the only spot of colour in Sherlock’s face that isn’t cool.

 

“I…apologize,” Sherlock says after a while. It sounds so strange to hear Sherlock apologizing. John’s eyes quickly move away from Sherlock’s mouth.

 

“I’m not the only one you should be saying sorry to.”

 

“I’m not. I _won’t_.” Sherlock is still giving him that look. It makes John think of Sherlock when he was twelve and Sherlock kissed him for an experiment. It makes him think of the two of them annoying Mycroft by throwing disgusting endearments at each other. It makes John wonder what it would be like to kiss Sherlock now and—

 

“There’s chocolate on your nose.”

 

John blinks. “Huh?’

 

“It’s either one of Gordon’s chocolate éclairs tried to enter your left nostril or you were distracted by something while you were eating. The latter, obviously. You’re an idiot but not by much.” It is getting really cold out here. Sherlock’s cheeks are flushed pink and he’s shivering despite the coat. His eyes are focused very hard on the chocolate on John’s nose. “You should clean that.”

 

“Are you—are you going inside?”

 

“Yes.” Sherlock is still looking at his nose. John wipes the spot with his sleeve. Sherlock finally looks away.

 

“We should go in, then. Too cold here.” John is lying. It’s no longer cold. In fact, it feels warm because he is still thinking about kissing and Sherlock and it’s wrong because Sherlock doesn’t do those things. Sherlock has never shown interest and Sherlock is fifteen, damn it. He’s too young, too bloody young and he’s annoying. He experiments and manipulates and he whines. But he’s got those eyes, those creepy eyes that see through you and that girly mouth and that impossible hair. And when he smiles and laughs and calls John an idiot, and when he’s running about, excitedly telling John about some murder case he read in the paper, it makes John feel like he wants to kiss him.

 

It is troubling.

 

“It’s going to rain,” Sherlock answers. They are talking about the bloody weather, John thinks hysterically. They are talking about the bloody weather and John is thinking about Sherlock and kissing and god only knows what Sherlock is thinking about. It’s as if his life has turned into a sitcom and people are watching him rapidly become as awkward as a gawky preteen with bad acne. The thought reminds him that Mycroft is in the room behind them and that he may have planted some cameras in the balcony. In a way, his life _is_ a sitcom with only one audience, Sherlock’s pretentious older brother.

 

“Uh, yeah, I think so too.”

 

He hopes—no, _prays_ that Mycroft hasn’t bullied anyone to develop a camera that can read someone’s thoughts because John is still thinking about Sherlock and kissing. He blames it on Sherlock's girly mouth and not having a girlfriend, blames it on his inability to try to pursue a relationship while he and Sherlock aren’t permanently bonded yet. Oh he could try again, John doesn’t doubt that. But Sherlock’s the kind of person who, once you befriend, doesn’t let anyone else grow close enough to you to become a competition.

 

 _You are a sap, John Watson_. He’s no longer thinking about Sherlock and kissing. Bill Murray has managed to squeeze his way into his thoughts. John can almost see him saying it, that all-knowing smirk on his face as he says _you are a sap, John Watson_. He can see Mike as well and Mike is rolling his eyes and saying _I told you so, didn’t I?_

Oh god, he isn’t Sherlock’s older brother. He isn’t his guinea pig, either. There is the fact that he wants to kiss Sherlock. There is the slow revelation that he likes Sherlock _in that way_. There is the very satisfying fact that Sherlock is bonded to him.

 

It is still troubling.

 

“Cold. Going to rain. Right.” John clears his throat. _You are impossible. You make me think of kissing. You were shouting at me a while ago because I wouldn’t let you smoke inside and I came here to tell you off. But you’ve managed to make me think about kissing you._

 

“You,” Sherlock says, stopping him with a hand on his elbow, “you still have chocolate on your nose.”

 

“Me? Oh, er, right?”

 

“Yes. Get a paper towel and clean that,” Sherlock mutters, rather fiercely. His hands move to his shoulders, his fingers digging in his skin. “You’re a mess, John.”

 

“We’re--we're not talking about the chocolate on my nose.”

 

Sherlock looks at him, eyes bright with something John has never seen before. He smells like a cigarette graveyard. He smells like London and that honey scent and John. “No,” he says, his fingers releasing John. “We’re not.”

 

 


	10. Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned. A lot of OC's.

Sherlock is mad. It is a fact that is readily accepted by man, like saying gravity exists and that there’s a rainbow after the rain. Usually, whatever mad idea he has is instantly stopped by his older brother, to Sherlock’s annoyance and to London’s relief. However, there are days when Sherlock slips out of Mycroft’s radar, thanks to his many helpful homeless individuals who are, ironically enough, paid with Mycroft’s money. There is also the fact that Mycroft Holmes is still young, has a family of his own, and is, unfortunately in this situation, British.

 

London isn’t the one grieving this time. Victor thinks this is alright. The city deserves one day of being Sherlock-free. The unfortunate city which has to suffer for Sherlock’s consequences is, at the moment, New York City.

 

Victor really hates this place.

 

Sherlock knees are no longer the colour of human flesh. They are covered in gargantuan purple-yellow bruises that look like they belong in a cartoon. They must be painful, Victor thinks, and he winces when Sherlock jumps up and tries to scale the wall once more, his lithe body slamming hard on the ground when he falls.

 

“Got it!” he yells triumphantly, his gloved hands cradling a slightly bloody hammer. He’s sitting on a heap of trash, his trousers rolled up to expose his now bleeding knees, but he’s grinning almost manically. Victor looks at the abrasions on his wrists which look even worse than they actually are because of his pallor. The sight of them makes him extremely nervous. Out of habit, he looks at the street lamps but none of the CCTV cameras swerve their way. Victor has no idea who the American Government is but whoever they are, they have no interest in a skinny seventeen-year-old with a murder weapon in his possession.  

 

“We should catch up with the others, Sherlock,” Victor attempts. He is thinking of the Metropolitan Museum where the rest of the class is and of their hotel room and the tiny, oyster-shaped bars of soap in the very nice loo of said hotel room. He is thinking that he has his father’s old camera in his hands and that Sherlock’s network of homeless individuals does not have an American branch. He isn’t thinking about how the muscles of Sherlock’s legs, despite their bloody state, are wonderfully defined and how Sherlock’s cheeks are flushed from the exertion of trying to reach the murder weapon. Victor isn’t thinking about that. Shouldn’t be thinking about that, rather. Sherlock is his friend, Sherlock is not interested, Sherlock is bonded to someone else.

 

Sherlock is really frustratingly good-looking.

 

The tiny ringing sound from Victor’s pocket distracts Sherlock from the hammer. He doesn’t drop it but he sets it down and outstretches one hand to Victor.

 

It is John. It can’t possibly be anyone else. Sherlock is jumping up and down again, manic with his find, as he tells John about the murder weapon. “A hammer, John! No, don’t be daft. It’s a high school student. Shop class. Don't they take that?” Sherlock bounds out of the alley, his phone still pressed to his ear. Victor wants to roll his eyes but he can’t because Sherlock will know and then Sherlock will ask and Victor can’t say that he’s jealous of John.

 

He’s met John a few times because of his role as ‘that kid who’s been Sherlock’s roommate for years’. Victor isn’t sure if Sherlock is his friend or not. Sherlock doesn’t have friends. He _tolerates_ people and apparently Victor isn’t half as annoying as the rest of the populace. He isn’t John, though. Victor isn’t saying that he’s better than John but all of his original thoughts about Sherlock’s mate flew out the window when he finally met him.

 

He’s average. Smart, yes, but not Sherlock smart. He likes outdoor sports and billiards and _rock_ music. He is short, as well, practically a head shorter than Sherlock and Victor. Everything about him is normal and it irks Victor that John still gets Sherlock despite his blandness. To Victor, John is boring. To Sherlock, however, John is a puzzle that can never be solved. “I used to hate him,” a very tired Sherlock had told him once, “but he’s always there and it’s not easy…to hate someone who’s always there.”

 

Sherlock is wrong about that, Victor thinks. Victor’s brother Julian is always in his presence and Victor hates him with all his heart. Julian with his clandestine cocaine addiction and his smarmy demeanour and that strong scent that screams arrogant Alpha. Victor hates him mostly because Julian _knows_. Every time he thinks of Sherlock, he can hear Julian talking to him, teasing him.

 

_Can’t have him, little brother. I can, though. Won’t even have to lift a finger and that kid will be begging for me to snog the lights out of him._

 

“Victor!” Sherlock snaps, startling him. The camera nearly slips from his hands but Victor manages to get a good grip on it before the threat becomes real. There is a flash from the camera, one that makes Sherlock scowl. The sight of it makes Victor tuck the camera to his chest even though he knows Sherlock won’t hurl it in the air. Before, maybe, but Sherlock is seventeen now, almost eighteen, actually, and while he is childish, Victor knows he won’t put himself in a situation where someone can tell him he’s being childish. At least, not without reason.

 

"Take pictures later,” Sherlock reprimands, phone still pressed to his ear. He shoots the camera a glare that Victor imagines is enough to melt steel.

 

“I like taking pictures,” he points out.

 

“Idiotic hobby,” Sherlock mutters under his breath.

 

Victor’s finger slips or perhaps it’s his willingness to live that slips because the camera flashes once more. Sherlock hisses—actually _hisses_ —but he doesn’t do anything else because he’s still talking to John. It is hilarious to see how much Sherlock will do for John. It is painful to see how much Sherlock will do for John. Victor wishes for a moment that he can be selective when it comes to emotions, but he’s not Sherlock.

 

“Sorry,” he says. He’s not even sure what he’s sorry about. About liking Sherlock even though they’re sometimes-friends-because-they’re-roommates or about being jealous of John. Victor is sure of one thing, though, and it’s being sorry because he took Sherlock’s picture _again_.

 

 “You’re thinking too loudly,” Sherlock complains.

 

Victor says nothing and tries very hard to think more quietly.

 

* * *

 

 “This isn’t something you can get out of,” John says, “nor is it something I want you to get out of.”

 

“You always get me out of things!” Sherlock complains from the other line. John has no idea if Sherlock knows that he’s just made a sexual innuendo, and John is very thankful that Sherlock is currently hundreds of miles away. Sherlock is ignorant like that and when he says certain things, it is either John becomes very aware of what nature can do to his pants or he thinks about that night when he had chocolate on his nose and Sherlock was telling him to clean it up. They’ve never talked about it after and John still isn’t quite sure what happened that night. Sherlock, John thinks, is an onion when it comes to communication. You peel one vague conversation and find another layer of a vague conversation beneath. It should be tiring, and it is, sometimes, but John is patient.

 

They were definitely not talking about chocolate that night.

 

“I don’t want another big party, John,” Sherlock hisses. “So what if I turn one year older? It’s not a big deal. Tell Mycroft.”

 

“Tell him yourself.”

 

“John, I am approximately three thousand six hundred and seventeen miles away from my fat git of a brother. My date of birth is five days away from now and I will arrive two hours before the morning of that accursed day. Also, Mycroft refuses to listen to me.”

 

John huffs a quiet laugh. “And you think he’ll listen to me?”

 

“He likes you. You plague me with your views on morality and you pay too much attention to my physical and emotional health. He likes that.”

 

John rolls his eyes. “Sherlock, if your brother actually liked me he wouldn’t leave his kids with—wait, I don’t nag you!”

 

“You do. Sherlock, eat something already. Sherlock, stop experimenting on my jumpers. Sherlock, stop texting me during an exam. Sherlock, stop walking around in just a sheet and put your clothes on—”

 

“Okay, I get it,” John grumbles, although he has to argue against that last part. Sherlock wearing nothing but a sheet isn’t something John wouldn’t like to see every day.

 

_Stop, it, Watson, before you do something embarrassing in front of your friends._

 

From the corner of his eye John can see Bill making lewd gestures and Mike laughing in the background. John flips them off, earning a glare from an elderly lady who, to John’s annoyance, is more furious by his raised middle finger than Bill’s demonstration of what seems to be a step-by-step procedure on how to suffocate a hotdog sandwich. Life is so unfair.

 

“You should be here,” Sherlock is saying, “I found a murder weapon and Victor’s taking pictures of it.”

 

“You’re on a field trip,” John mutters, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Sherlock will know and he’ll never hear the end of it. “You should be sightseeing, not taking the job of the police.”

 

“The only reason why I even joined is because of New York’s latest serial killer and—”

 

“Don’t,” John warns, “go chasing serial killers. _Anymore_. At least, not while you’re there and Mycroft’s in Russia or wherever.”

 

“Nagging.”

 

“Not nagging. I’m just…worried.” John wrinkles his nose at that last one. For a moment there is no reply and John begins to really worry. Perhaps he shouldn’t have said that. Perhaps Sherlock doesn’t want him to worry. Or maybe—

 

“Oh,” Sherlock says and that’s it. Just an ‘oh’ that can mean anything. John wants him to elaborate but before he can even open his mouth, a bundle of colourful straws is thrown his way. It’s surprisingly heavy for something made of plastic.

 

“Oi!” Bill yells. “Stop flirting with your boyfriend and get your arse over here, Watson! ”

 

“Piss off,” John mutters, restraining the urge to shout back as several people in the diner have turned to look at them. “Listen,” he says to Sherlock, “I have to go and deal with them—”

 

“Paging John Watson! There will be more time for phone sex later.”

 

Beside Bill, his cousin Max laughs and manages to make a mess of his shirt by snorting soda out of his nose. The table erupts in howls and jeers that, if left alone, would no doubt bring the manager from the back. John quickly says goodbye then does his best to silence the others.

 

“Seriously, mate,” Patrick, the only person at the table not taking medicine, says as he hands John his drink, “you were taking forever.”

 

“They’re a lovey dovey couple,” Bill says rather sombrely. “And John’s a pathetic love struck bastard. Not that I blame him of course. I’ve seen the kid and wow!” Bill smacks his upper arm. It’s an Alpha thing, the arm smacking and headlocks and the bum slapping. John doesn’t hate it but it gets tiring when it’s done one too many times already. John makes an exception for now, though, and returns the playful punch with one not so playful. “Seriously, Mike and I saw him in John’s birthday last year. A bit annoying but once you get past that—it’s like that kid is God’s gift to mankind.”

 

“You lucky bastard!” Max gives him an Alpha punch as well, his fist landing exactly where Bill’s was a moment ago, numbing John’s whole arm. “Got laid yet?”

 

“We’re not like that,” John snaps. “We’re not even…I haven’t even kissed—god!”

 

Mike laughs. “Okay, okay—enough about John’s sex life.”

 

“Lack of,” Patrick corrects.

 

“Sod off, all of you,” John growls. He’s not like them anymore; he doesn’t think of sex every day of the week. He used to, of course, but then Sherlock had to grow up and become a little less annoying and extremely good-looking. John has no idea when he stopped wanting to punch Sherlock in the face and started wanting to wrap his arms around him and never let go. It’s all so confusing. Sherlock will be doing another one of his weird experiments on John and he’ll make cutting remarks about John’s intelligence and something in John’s mind will just go _gurk_ because Sherlock will give him that smile, the one that makes John turn into a pathetic love struck bastard. Sherlock can be knee deep in animal carcasses and John’s brain will still go _gurk_. It is inevitable; it’s almost as if it’s turned into one of the laws of physics. It will be the death of John Watson.

 

Bill rolls his eyes at Patrick. “You’re one to talk,” he says. “You haven’t had anyone in months.”

 

“The students here are not good enough for me,” Patrick answers lazily. “That’s why I’m going for a soldier, remember? People love men in uniform.”

 

John glares at him. He remembers his father, the warm press of his lips against John’s forehead as he clutches a ragged teddy bear, Harry clinging to his leg and crying loudly. He remembers a black box and the smell of white lilies and two soldiers folding a flag and laying it over the coffin. “That’s insulting,” he says in a flat voice that silences Patrick.

 

Mike puts a hand on his shoulder. “Patrick doesn’t mean it like that.”

 

Bill tries a grin but it’s tentative and not at all like the over-confident ones he often uses. “It’s just one of the perks. But Patrick and I are doing this for queen and country, you know? Someone’s got to protect the old geezer.”

 

“And you know my family, John,” Patrick says. “We’re army brats.” There is something more to that. John can tell from the way Patrick’s eyes darken and when he sees Max and the others tense, John knows that it’s not only him who notices. But it’s Patrick’s problem and it’s not an Alpha thing, to go talking about each other’s problems. John wishes for a moment that they were in a bar. Alcohol’s far from being a solution but it’s the only thing that they can offer Patrick without having to talk about whatever it is he has on his mind.

 

“Yes, fine, whatever.” His voice is light, playful, and it seems to work because the others begin to relax. “Just don’t get shot.”

 

Bill snorts. “Tell that to Patrick. I’m going to be protected by a red cross.”

 

“Good for you.” People die, John wants to say. Soldiers die and innocent people die. John’s father died and if Bill and Patrick aren’t careful, John might lose his friends, too. He’s not entirely sure what’s more horrible—his friends dying or his friends killing. John knows Bill’s reason is bull. It’s not about saving lives for him. It’s all about getting that adrenaline rush most of them crave.

 

“I’d tell you to join as well,” Bill says as he squirts ketchup over their fries. It shouldn’t look like blood but somehow it does. The thought doesn’t disturb John, though, which should be more disturbing. “But there’s no way we’re letting you go abroad when you haven’t even solved the problem to your bloody love life.”

 

And there it is again. John wants to slam his head against the wall. “Will you guys stop pestering me about Sherlock?”

  
“Can’t,” Max says as pushes his glass up the bridge of his nose. It slides back down again. “We’re your friends and we have to see that our Johnny’s happy. Also, you talk about him all the time. It’s kind of hard not to mention him.”

 

“What the fuck do you want me to do?”

 

“Grow a pair and stop dancing around each other,” Mike says. John looks at him incredulously. Mike is capable of swearing. He is a guy, after all, but he’s the one who _shouldn’t_ be swearing. Not when he’s the only one saner than John in their group. “Seriously, John. So what if he’s three years younger than you? He’s not a little kid anymore and you’re expected to get together, anyway.”

 

John glares at them. “You’re going to track my every move.” They will never stop. John knows this. It is an unspoken rule among them, to help even when help is not needed. John doesn’t need their help and he definitely doesn’t want it but they are stubborn and they will probably send him a hundred texts asking him about his progress. Mike is okay but he must keep the rest of them away from Sherlock or else Very Bad Things will happen.

 

“Of course we are. We want to attend your very posh wedding where there may be men and women who might be as fit as your fiancé and we’ll want to be godfathers to your babies.”

 

“You don’t want my future children,” John mutters. “You hate kids.”

 

Max shakes his head and sighs dramatically. “But they’ll have your nose and your big ears and they’ll call us ‘uncle’ and we’ll be there to corrupt their childhoods and teach them how to prank their daddy.”

 

“You lot are awful. You shouldn’t be allowed near children.” John leans back and swallows half of his drink. “I’ll have Sherlock’s brother-in-law arrest all of you. You’ll never get out.”

 

 “I’ll seduce the officers.”

 

“Don’t,” Patrick says. “You’ll make them sick.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re smoking again. I can smell it all the way here.” Luke sniffs the air then makes a face. “Menthol? Gross.”

 

Greg blinks at him. “I’m pretty sure that I should say ‘hello’ first but what the hell are you doing on the floor?”

 

Luke shrugs, or at least tries to. It’s not easy to shrug when you’re lying sideways on the cold marble floor of Greg’s kitchen with your hands and feet bound by belts and your face covered in paint. Were he any other person, Greg would be shell-shocked. But he married the British Government and he has children who have the same genetic material as one Sherlock Holmes so Greg is part of the madhouse now. This? This is normal.

 

“My godchildren are adorable,” Luke says wryly. He wriggles for a moment, looking a lot like a giant worm, before he stills and looks at Greg for a long time. “Any time now.”

 

“You’re being punished by God,” Greg tells him as he gets on one knee and tries to free Luke. “This is for giving me the wrong pills.”

 

“Don’t be daft,” Luke says as Greg hauls him to his feet. He looks like he belongs in a tribe with the paint and the skull earrings. “You wouldn’t have them if it weren’t for me.”

 

“Yes, I’m pleased,” Greg answers darkly. “I’m very pleased that you took your dad’s job even though you didn’t know anything about medicine and I’m very pleased that you gave me the wrong pills which could have easily killed me.”

 

Luke gapes at him then groans in frustration. “I gave you antibiotics!”

 

“The thought remains. Mycroft wanted to skin you alive for it.”

 

“Mycroft wouldn’t do that. He loves me.”

 

Greg blinks and stares at Luke. He’s one of the few friends of Greg who hasn’t dropped the punk façade after uni. His hair is a myriad of colours and he’s wearing ripped jeans and a shirt featuring The Ramones. He has tattoos and piercings in places where piercings should never dwell. Luke is, in short, the epitome of the punk scene.

 

“Transitive relation,” Luke points out when Greg just stares at him. “Mycroft loves you, you love me—”

 

“I don’t love you.”

 

“You’re my second cousin once removed.”

 

“Twice,” Greg corrects and Luke shoots him a glare.

 

“Fine. Twice removed, but the thing is I’m family and you’re supposed to love your family.”

 

“Um.”

 

“Also,” Luke says loudly as he walks towards the sink, “may I remind you that I’ve been at your side since we were kids and that I was present in your pre-bonding ceremony. I have pictures.”

 

“And Mycroft hated you from the start,” Greg retorts. “You ate the last piece of cake.”

 

‘Wonderful day, that was. The most tragic incident of whence gallant Sir Luke Rochewell battled the great Mycroft Holmes with a fork for the frosting-coated hand of a most marvellous cake.”

 

“Poetic.” Greg rolls his eyes and Luke grins at him before plunging his face under the faucet. Greg hands him a towel. “Where are they by the way?”

 

“Taking a nap,” Luke says, his voice muffled by the towel. He dries himself quickly and when his face pops up again, it’s clean and paint free. “ _Hopefully_ taking a nap. I was sleeping and when I woke up I was already tied up and covered in paint.”

 

Greg counts from one to ten. It works. Almost works anyway. A bit of anger still slips out when he says, “I told you not to sleep.”

 

“I told you not to have me babysit them!” Luke argues. “This is your fault for taking a full time job even though you don’t need it.”

 

“I want to,” Greg argues back. This is beginning to sound like that old argument between him and Mycroft about his job. Greg hates it. He loves his job, loves his co-workers, even loves the paperwork. It makes him feel independent, makes him feel like something is his and his alone.

 

Luke sighs and thankfully doesn’t push it. Luke doesn’t understand. Greg doesn’t expect him to. He’s the same age as Greg but Greg has a family now so he seems younger. He’s always been naïve anyway, always doing the stupidest things and expecting Greg to get him out of trouble. But he’s Greg’s best friend and while he doesn’t understand everything, he knows Greg. “Right,” he says and he puts on The Face, the one where he pretends to be older than anyone else in the room. “Let’s go find them, then.”

 

It’s easy to find the twins. They’re only two and as menacing as they can be they are undeniably quite attached to Greg. Or rather, Greg’s leg.

 

“Those were my favourite trousers,” Greg says as Luke helps him detach the first one from Greg’s leg. “Hello, Beatrice, you got paint on your daddy’s clothes again.”

 

Beatrice just wraps her arms around his neck. _Cross finger painting out of their activities_. There’s paint in her hair and her clothes and there’s chocolate around her mouth. Cedric is in the same state. He’s on the floor, tying and untying Greg’s shoe and if Greg isn’t careful, Cedric might get the idea of tying both of his shoes together. It's a little hard to think of them as Mycroft’s children but they look a lot like him with their auburn hair and freckled skin. They are physically tiny Mycrofts but inside, they are small versions of Sherlock. “It’s something we all go through,” Mycroft had told him. “They’ll grow out of it.”

 

Greg didn’t dare point out that there is a possibility of an exception to the rule. Sherlock exemplifies that. The thought of raising two Sherlocks is horrifying. Greg prays that if not both, then at least one, will grow out of it. It’s already hard finding a babysitter brave enough to last more than three hours with these two.

 

“I can’t wait until you two are old enough to restrain yourselves.”

 

Luke stares at them. “I can’t wait until they’re old enough to argue about who was planned and who wasn’t. The look on their faces when I tell them neither of them were. Wouldn’t miss that for the world.” He kneels until he’s at Cedric’s eyelevel. “Both of you exist because of me,” he says seriously. “Therefore, you shouldn’t tie me up anymore or put paint on my face.”

 

Cedric blinks then smiles at him before sneezing in his face.

 

* * *

 

“Airports are boring,” Sherlock says to Victor who is fiddling with his camera. Again. “There’s nothing interesting here.”

 

“People,” Victor answers without looking at him.

 

Sherlock looks at people passing by and counts ten adulterers, three divorced, six newlyweds, and two pre-bonded. Victor is wrong. The people here are not interesting. They are normal, disgustingly so. Sherlock is so _bored_. And Victor, damn him, is paying more attention to his camera than to Sherlock. For the umpteenth time, Sherlock wishes for John’s presence. At least John is never boring. He wraps John’s scarf tighter around himself and slumps further down his seat.

 

Waiting is boring. When travelling with Mycroft, Sherlock never has to wait, but Mycroft’s influence doesn’t extend to the JFK airport. If it does, then Mycroft sure isn’t doing something about it. New York, Sherlock has found, is quite boring. The criminals here are just like those in London, only stupider. Sherlock is tired of them, tired of their American accents and Time’s Square and the smell of McDonald’s. He wants everyone go away and to stop smelling so unfamiliarly. He wants to go back to London and continue his experiments or go to John’s flat and pester him nonstop.

 

“Go walk around for a bit,” Victor tells him. “It won’t be long now.”

 

Sherlock glares at him but does as he says. It is either stay and be surrounded by Sherlock’s idiotic peers or walk around and be surrounded by idiotic people. The latter is a better option. At least they won’t talk to Sherlock.

 

They are looking, though. Young Alphas are looking his way and even some Betas. Sherlock glares at them.

 

“Look at that lad over there. He looks a bit like you.”

 

Sherlock turns around and sees a woman with red hair, obviously from a bottle, looking at him with an amused expression on her face. A secretary, he thinks, happily married with kids. Sherlock’s eyes move to the man beside her.

 

 _Mycroft_.

 

But it’s not Mycroft even though he _smells_ a bit like him. The man doesn’t have Mycroft’s face. He’s tall though and he’s wearing a suit, darker than the ones Mycroft prefers but almost in the same style. He’s pale with brown hair and blue eyes and a face that Sherlock is sure would be like his once he gets older.

 

“Mr Holmes!” one of the teachers accompanying them yells. “We’re leaving now.”

 

He barely hears her. Sherlock remembers a photograph hidden in the skull in his father’s office and a boy smiling at the camera. Sherlock hasn’t thought much about him, not since Father left. He doesn’t know him. He only knows his face and half of his parentage. Sherlock doesn’t have his backstory. He can’t even seem to read it. He doesn’t have a name either.

 

The woman looks at her watch. ‘We’d better go Mr Adams.”

 

Adams. But he’s a Holmes. It’s undeniable. His smell, his features. But why—

 

Ah, of course. Why would a bastard have their name?

 

The man smiles at him. “You should go as well.”

 

Sherlock stares at him.

 

The man sighs and looks at him amusedly. It’s strange. _He looks more like me than Mycroft does._

 

“It’s Sherrinford,” he says quietly so that the woman doesn’t hear, before he walks away with his secretary alongside him.

 

Victor walks up to him, still fiddling with his camera. “We’re about to leave now,” he says. He looks up. “Who were you talking to, anyway?”

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The John/Sherlock will start SOON. I am being a fucking tease.


	11. Overdue

Cedric looks up from an upside down book of George Orwell’s essays when Sherlock bounds into Mycroft’s bedroom, his face set in an expression full of determination. Mycroft does not see it. Currently, Mycroft is sprawled in the middle of the bed, his face buried in the pillows, his shirt off and with a two-year-old seated on his freckled back. Clearly, Mycroft is not supposed to be disturbed. Drinking with several ambassadors then flying from Russia to England takes its toll on the average human body.

 

Sherlock does not care.

 

“Off,” he says and when Cedric just looks at him, Sherlock grabs him and hangs him on the coatrack behind the door. This is not the first time Sherlock hung his nephew by his suspenders in certain convenient places. Mycroft did it often enough when Sherlock was younger. It is revenge, Sherlock thinks. Sort of, anyway. It’s not like he can put suspenders on Mycroft and hang _him_. Sherlock would break his spine just trying to lift him five inches off the ground.

 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock pokes him with his finger. When it doesn’t work, Sherlock tries punching him. It does not work, either. Mycroft has always been a heavy sleeper. Jetlag and alcohol combined makes him dead to the world. Sherlock looks around the room for something a little heavier than his hands but there are none.

 

“I was in America,” Sherlock growls at the still-sleeping Mycroft. “I was in America and I ran and chased small-time criminals for fun and you were just sitting at some party drinking champagne and eating canapés. And you still have the grace to be more tired than me.”

 

Mycroft answers with a snore.

 

Sherlock huffs, bends his knees, and—

 

“Don’t you even think about continuing what I think you’re about to do,” a stern voice says from behind him.

 

Like his brother, Greg, it seems, has developed the uncanny ability to detect whether or not Sherlock is about to make things more difficult for the rest of the world. He glares at Sherlock pointedly until Sherlock groans and straightens himself. “I know you don’t weigh a thing, Sherlock, but I’m still not going to allow you to literally throw yourself on Mycroft,” he says.

 

“It’s important.”

 

“It can wait.” He leans on the door before Sherlock can say anything. The door thankfully doesn’t slam on the wall but Greg’s weight is enough to squish Cedric between the wall and the door. “Shit!” Greg yelps when Cedric begins to cry loudly. He jumps away then quickly retrieves his son. “Sherlock, how many times do I have to tell you not to do this?”

 

Sherlock’s reply is to look back at Mycroft.

 

Still nothing.

 

“Fat,” Sherlock mutters but even that doesn’t stir Mycroft awake. Cedric’s crying has moved to the beginning of a full-scale tantrum judging by the way he’s currently flailing in Greg’s arms. If Mycroft were awake he would sigh and look from Sherlock to Cedric then back again. But Mycroft is not awake. No, Mycroft has to act like a bloody grizzly bear in the middle of its hibernation. This isn’t the first time Sherlock’s seen Mycroft sleep through a hangover so he knows that it will be hours before Mycroft will wake up again. However, a very large part of Sherlock wants Mycroft to wake up _now_ and a part of Sherlock that has always been with him just wants to annoy the hell out of his brother.

 

“Nice,” Greg snaps when the two of them hear Beatrice from the room beside theirs, already joining in her brother’s wailing. “Really, Sherlock, is it too much to ask you not to treat my kids like wet laundry?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t like kids. They are noisy and inquisitive and they have sticky hands and runny noses and a penchant for claiming things that aren’t theirs. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to Greg when Sherlock answers with a solid ‘no’ but Greg still gives him that look. Sherlock easily interprets it as Shut Up This Instance or I Will Kill You Slowly. Sherlock disregards it, though, because a) while Greg is furious right now, he’s too moralistic to kill anyone b) there is a child present and c) the person he’s directing the look at is Sherlock Holmes aka the most stubborn person in the face of the earth.

 

“I would hit you right now but it’s your birthday,” Greg mutters over Cedric’s crying. He sounds like an air raid siren and still, Mycroft doesn’t wake up. “Expect a fist to your face when it’s past midnight.”

 

“I expect a gift,” Sherlock says as he leaves the room. “A new microscope to be more exact.”

 

Behind him, Greg swears.

 

* * *

 

“It’s to annoy Mycroft. The guests won’t arrive until seven, anyway, which gives me plenty of time to get back.” Sherlock is wearing sunglasses. They’re large and dark and obviously for show. “I figured I’d go here to alleviate boredom.” Long fingers push them up the bridge of his nose.

 

“Um,” is all that come out of John’s mouth. To be fair, it’s impressive that he’s actually said something at all. Coming home to the flat you left not more than fifteen minutes ago and finding someone sitting on the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee in one hand is one of those situations where you should be awarded for being able to speak.

 

“Really, John,” Sherlock says. He takes the glasses off and hooks them on the collar of his shirt. He’s much paler there, the colour of his skin not matching the skin on his arms. Sherlock isn’t tan, not exactly, but two weeks in New York has helped him lose a little of the ghostly pallor he so often has. His cheeks are flushed from the cold and he’s wearing a red shirt and the jacket that John’s been looking for since Sherlock’s last ~~trespass~~ visit. It’s too small and too big at the same time and John finds himself drawn to Sherlock’s pale and bony wrists which jut out from the sleeves.

 

“Er, happy birthday,” John greets a little blankly. “Not that I’m not happy to see you but…entering my flat when I’m out buying milk…it’s more than a bit not good.”

 

“I’ve done this countless of times before.”

 

“Visiting,” John says, “visiting is when you have the person’s consent to enter his home. I don’t think entering my flat while I’m sleeping or taking a shower then leaving before I can even acknowledge your presence can be considered visiting.”

 

Sherlock merely takes a sip of his coffee. John sets the milk on the counter and steps back to look at Sherlock. Standing this close and after getting rid of the initial shock upon seeing Sherlock in his kitchen at eight-thirty in the morning, John sees the shadows under Sherlock’s eyes and the sharpness of his cheekbones which are even more defined than the last time John saw him. “You’re eating,” John says and it’s not a question either. Sherlock rolls his eyes at him but slips off the counter and heads to the living room.

 

“Wait!”

 

Sherlock pauses in the threshold.

 

“I haven’t—the place is a mess. Sorry about that, by the way.”

 

Sherlock frowns at him. “What mess?”

 

There is a mess. John’s flat is one big mess. It’s small and cluttered and very much an Alpha turf thanks to his friends who, despite having their own flats, find John’s quite comfortable. As a result, there are stacks of empty pizza boxes and socks with no pairs and even a pair of neon green pants which John definitely does not have ownership of. It would take ages to clean so John doesn’t bother unless it gets too much. It’s not as if he has many visitors, anyway. There’s Harry who’s even more of a slob than his friends combined and there’s his mother who, thank the gods, always calls ahead, giving John time to clean the worst of the mess. And of course there’s Sherlock who never calls and just barges in whenever he wants, often at the worst times, say when John is just getting out of the shower or when John is fixing a light bulb. Acting shy about the mess around Sherlock is something, John realizes, not rational, not when Sherlock, despite his posh clothes and golden family background, is capable of making a mess so great you’d have to have the British Government hire someone to take care of it.

 

“Right. Go ahead and watch some crap telly.”

 

“These are yours,” Sherlock says when John returns a few minutes later with a sandwich.

 

“What are?”

 

 “These.” Sherlock nudges a pair of red pants beneath the lilo with the toe of his shoe.

 

John blinks. They’re his and they are _clean_ , mind you. How they got there exactly, John has no idea. Bill, probably. They’ve done some stupid things when they were either drunk or trying to alleviate stress during cram sessions. The knowledge of his friends tossing his pants around for fun is not what disturbs John. The question, really, is how Sherlock knows they’re his. “How’d you know?” John asks, expecting a litany of deductions.

 

Sherlock, to John’s surprise, just smirks at him.

 

“That’s…disturbing.”

 

“Is it?”

 

“Your smile is. Move over. I’m watching Doctor Who.”

 

“I hate this show.”

 

“You hate everything on television. Your opinion doesn’t count.”

 

Sherlock grumbles at that but he eats his sandwich and actually remains quiet for a while. For a moment, John thinks that Sherlock might actually be enjoying the show. The fact that Sherlock thinks time travel is illogical, however, contradicts that. There is also the fact that Sherlock is now arranging John’s limbs so that he can put his head on John’s lap.

 

It’s not something they haven’t done before, really. John can’t remember exactly how this arrangement began, but John knows that if Sherlock is jostling him and pressing his nose against John’s stomach, it usually means that Sherlock is tired and John is available to serve as a makeshift pillow. There’s something different about now, though, and it might be that John’s hand has found its way in Sherlock’s hair or because Sherlock is looking up at him with that piercing gaze that always makes John feel a little light-headed. There are breadcrumbs on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and John wants to wipe them away but his hand is busy rubbing circles in Sherlock’s scalp and the other one is busy digging into the armrest.

 

“I have pillows,” John attempts. “They’re softer than my lap, you know.”

 

“Pillows are useless. They can’t massage my scalp,” Sherlock says.

 

“No, they can’t.” Pillows, John thinks, are actually quite useful despite what Sherlock thinks. Pillows are for sleeping and for little girls and not-so-little girls who like to throw sleepovers and for teenage boys who—

 

“Focus,” Sherlock mutters then grabs John’s wrist and positions his hand at a spot behind his left ear. John scratches awkwardly as Sherlock makes a weird noise that sounds like a cross between a purr and a moan.

 

“You’re like a cat,” John tells him.

 

“I am not—oh, wait, do that again.”

 

“Cat,” John repeats as he scratches at another spot. “I had one before I met you—a cat, I mean. It was Harry’s actually and it was a fat orange monster. Kind of like Garfield.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Garfield? Really, Sherlock, you had a childhood. I was there for most of it.”

 

“Deleted it, probably.” Sherlock yawns and presses himself even more against John by rolling shoulder blades and giving him better access to the back of his neck. “My childhood and yours are different, John. You grew up _normal_.”

 

“And you?”

 

Sherlock closes his eyes. “I grew up learning Greek and Latin with my fat git of a brother constantly watching over me as I wasn’t allowed to go outside the estate. You played rugby. At age four I already had the idea of what experiments were.”

 

John pauses. “You were lonely.”

 

“I was not.”

 

“You were,” John says. “No wonder you hated me so much. It must have been weird for some stranger to enter your home and then get engaged to you. No, wait, that was weird, even for me. But you were—you only had Mycroft and you two don’t exactly get along. I had friends. I had people who helped me make fun of what happened.”

 

Sherlock goes quiet and John’s hand stills completely. “It’s funny, then?” he says. “Us?”

 

“There is no ‘us’.”

 

Sherlock says nothing but he pushes John’s hand away and sits up. John isn’t an expert in Sherlock and even though they have this weird emotional bond thing, Sherlock is adept when it comes to shunning John. He’s doing it right now and John curses his stupid mouth and his stupid brain because that really wasn’t what he meant to say.

 

“That night,” John says and Sherlock stills, “You were being a prat. I brought you your coat and you told me I had chocolate on my nose.”

 

Sherlock looks at him calculatingly. “You could have easily said Mycroft and Greg’s wedding night.”

 

“I could have said nothing at all.”

 

“The chocolate,” Sherlock mumbles, “is not important. Yet you mentioned it all the same.”

 

 “You kept staring at it.”

 

“I was staring at your mouth.”

 

It is a conversation long overdue.

 

John blinks and Sherlock blinks back. And John’s hands—John’s hands seem to have a mind of their own because they’ve found their way to Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock’s fingers are digging into John’s shoulders. Sherlock’s face is unreadable but all John thinks of when he looks at him is _I want, I want, I will always want._

 

“Idiot,” Sherlock mutters, sounding a little accusing, before he leans down and presses his mouth against John’s.

 

It is a kiss long overdue.

 

It isn’t very good either. There are teeth there and John’s nose is pressed against Sherlock’s, making it quite difficult to breathe It isn’t like any of the other kisses John shared. He’s only ever kissed girls, anyway, and they were soft and pliant in his arms. This isn’t his first time kissing Sherlock either but experiments don’t count so it is a bit of a shock to find that Sherlock kisses like he’s fighting you. It’s not much of a shock to find that he likes it because Sherlock bloody Holmes is kissing him.

 

Sherlock is the one who pulls away. His brows are furrowed and he’s scowling. “That was,” he says and John laughs when he falters because he’s actually rendered Sherlock speechless.

 

“Too much?”

 

“Good,” Sherlock croaks. He clears his throat then says in a voice more like his usual one, “That was very good, John.”

 

“That wasn’t your first kiss.”

 

“Ah, no, but it was still with you.”

 

“You said I tasted of dead fish.”

 

“You did.”

 

“Bastard.” John’s thumbs run over those impossible cheekbones and Sherlock practically melts in his touch. “You,” John breathes. “Did you really come here just to piss off your brother or—or _this_?”

 

Sherlock looks at him for a long time. He has one hand on John's thigh, the other splayed on his chest. John's heart is pounding and it feels too big and too noisy in his chest and Sherlock is just looking at him. His mouth goes dry when the hand on his chest moves to the back of his neck.

 

“The latter,” Sherlock says and John laughs then goes very quiet when Sherlock kisses him again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you might be curious about Sherrinford but he's not really important. At least, not in THIS story. Anyway, I will shower you with fluff for a while before I once more become a freaking tease.


	12. Trade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mike Stamford makes the mistake of asking Sherlock for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a long time (well, long for this story, anyway). Not dead, didn't jump off a building after Benny, but I did sprain my wrist in a motorbike accident (some idiot didn't know how to ride a bike and knocked me over) so I couldn't type properly for weeks. I know, Johnlock, right? But this chapter and the second one are important.

Mike Stamford is a man who enjoys the simple things in life. Unlike most of his friends, he does not care much for materialistic things nor does he care much for his grades. For Mike Stamford, his day is considered good when he’s had a cup of coffee (lots of cream and three sugars) in the little coffee shop a few blocks outside the campus. His day is considered exceptionally well when the coffee shop’s popular glazed doughnut is available to go with his coffee.

 

The place, named after the owner, is called Clyde’s, pronounced as ‘slides’, actually. (Somewhere out there, there is a man who has spent fifty years of his life believing his name to be pronounced as Slides. His is, however, not important in this story.) The place is an old haunt of many students, mostly those taking medicine and those taking law. It must, Mike supposes, be because of how it’s designed. Not boring but not loud either. It has a sophisticated air to it, and you’d be embarrassed to make any kind of noise. Mike goes there almost every day, accompanied by John but only if, and only _if_ , Sherlock has not done something that would require John’s presence. Nowadays, it is usually only Mike who goes there and Mike really does not want to think of what John and Sherlock do whenever their lunch breaks match.

 

Mike revels in solitude. Silence allows him to think and organize his thoughts. Sitting there all alone with a book in one hand and a contemplative expression on his face makes him look older and wiser than his years. Mike is aware of this. _She_ is aware of this.

 

Her name is Olivia Henderson and while they are not close friends, Mike has talked to her enough times to gather the following information: that she lived in Australia for five years before returning to London, that she majors in behavioural science, she adores films directed by Julio Medem, and that she recently broke up with an Alpha she’d been dating for two years. Mike does not know the guy but he thinks that he must have been an idiot for letting her go. If perfection could be personified, it would take the form of Olivia Henderson. She’s beautiful and nice and even John who has been madly in love with Sherlock for years (though he will never admit it) falls quiet whenever she enters the coffee shop.

 

Olivia always chooses to sit at the table near Mike’s where she’ll spend her free time sipping a cup of very strong coffee while reading another novel with her headphones on. And when Mike is lucky, Olivia will look up just as she’s about to turn a page. She’ll give him a small smile, almost like she’s telling him a secret, and Mike will grin back stupidly.

 

His day is considered perfect when she smiles at him.

 

It is Friday and neither he nor John have any afternoon classes. Sherlock, apparently, is making a mess in his flat and while John says he does not approve, there is that small, fond smile on his face which appears every time he mentions Sherlock. Seeing it makes Mike feel weird. He’s only ever seen his parents smile like that and looking at that smile on John’s face makes him feel likes he’s staring at John twenty years in the future. “You know where to find me,” Mike tells him as John hails a cab, “if you get back early, that is.”

 

With their finals approaching, there are less students hanging about the coffee shop. Mike expects Olivia to not be at her usual spot but to his surprise and delight, he finds her there. She’s facing out the window, her feet tucked beneath her, looking almost child-like in the position. Mike orders his usual and clumsily pulls out a chair. The legs screech against the marble floor and people turn their heads to look, including Olivia. Mike winces then tries a smile to cover his embarrassment.

 

His eyes widen when he sees the tear tracks on her cheeks. Her eyes are red and puffy and when she says his name, he finds himself taking the seat opposite her.

 

“What happened?” he asks.

 

Mike’s heart is pounding when he leaves the coffee shop two hours later. With Olivia no longer in the room with him, he now realizes how stupid he was to have even suggested Sherlock. He’s not one for crime stories, hell he doesn’t even watch detective movies. But seeing Olivia so distressed like that made all reasoning fly out the window.

 

He doesn’t know Sherlock and he’s quite sure that Sherlock only tolerates him because he’s John’s friend. He hopes—no, _prays_ —that Sherlock will be interested. John told him about Sherlock’s recent black moods, apparently caused by a lack of crime and one Mycroft Holmes. There is a big chance that Sherlock will take it but a part of Mike can’t help but think that he’ll be lucky if Sherlock even talks to him.

 

The cab he’s in slows to a halt in front of the Greek restaurant where Mike was told John would be. The place smells so strongly of foreign cigarettes and different spices that his eyes sting and begin to water. The owner is there, yelling at someone who must be his son in a language that can only be Greek. Mike slips past them and goes to where Sherlock and John are seated.

 

It is…unusual. They’ve only been together for a few weeks but Mike knows that they’re not affectionate, not physically so. But right now Sherlock is pressed against John’s side, slumped in his seat so his head can rest on John’s shoulder. He looks tired in his rumpled clothes. _Is_ tired, Mike thinks, when Sherlock yawns and closes his eyes for a few seconds. “Hey,” Mike says and Sherlock doesn’t move. John does, however, and Mike freezes when he sees the strange expression on John’s face.

 

John isn’t glaring at him, but the look in his eyes can only be interpreted as challenging. This is John the Alpha, then, and not the John Watson they so love to tease. Amidst the scent of smoke and spices, Mike is able to pick up the smell of post-heat that is definitely coming from Sherlock.

 

Were he an Alpha, and were he a very stupid Alpha, John wouldn’t hesitate to punch him. But thankfully, Mike is a Beta and an obedient student who always listens every time there is a speaker in front of the class. Right, he thinks as he looks at John and tries to remember all those lectures. New in a relationship, post-heat, pheromones still there, overprotective Alpha. Right.

 

Mike swallows hard and tells himself to tread carefully. John, as they all know, has more self-control than most Alphas, but Mike cannot help but be afraid. John, for all his soft sweaters and boyish face and sweet smiles, is deceptively dangerous. There is a hidden strength beneath John Watson, one that Mike definitely does not want to test. The thought of engaging in a fist fight with an Alpha brings a sour taste to his mouth and Mike is once again grateful that he never has the primal instinct to exert dominance.

 

_Don’t mention Sherlock, don’t even look at Sherlock, lower your eyes, good, pulls hands out of your pockets, relax your body, wait until John feels comfortable around you._

It only takes a few seconds (it would take much, much longer if he were a stranger and an Alpha one, at that). Finally, John smiles, the tension from his body disappearing. “You’ve never eaten here before, right?” John says as Mike slides in the chair opposite him. From his peripheral vision, he can see Sherlock studying him.

 

“No.”

 

“It’s good. Spicy, though.”

 

The food is good but Mike cannot bring himself to enjoy it. A heavy-weight has settled in his stomach. He picks at his food listlessly as he watches John eat with Sherlock occasionally stealing food from John’s plate. His eyes almost never leave the screen of his phone, but every now and then he’ll look up and stare at Mike with an unreadable expression.

 

 “Sherlock,” John groans when Sherlock clears half the plate in one go, “I told you to order something.”

 

Sherlock merely eats some more.

 

“I’ve got to go to the loo,” John tells Mike as he stands up. “Make sure he doesn’t eat everything.”

 

Mike watches John leave and waits until the door has closed behind him before he looks at Sherlock. “You want something from me,” Sherlock says before he even has a chance to open his mouth. “Obviously.”

 

“Obviously?”

 

“Why else would you come here? You’ve been looking at me for the past fifteen minutes. You’re nervous; your hands are trembling. You need something from me but you don’t need it personally. You look more ashamed than desperate. If it’s your problem or the problem of someone you’re very close to, you’d look desperate. No, you’re doing this for someone you like sexually.” Sherlock pauses and Mike closes his mouth which has somehow fallen open in the middle of Sherlock’s talk. “Make it interesting.”

 

Mike blinks. It’s not a yes but it’s something. “It’s suicide,” he says then, upon seeing Sherlock roll his eyes, quickly adds, “but she—my friend—wants to know the reason why. My friend thinks that the girl was threatened. She knew something about…I’m not sure. Olivia—that’s her—she’s not sure, either. But she thinks it might have something to do with…with drugs.”

 

As soon as that last word leaves Mike’s mouth, he immediately regrets it. He can’t read Sherlock. He’s been John’s friend for so long but he doesn’t know Sherlock well, and Mike doubts he’d be able to read Sherlock even if he’d known him since primary school. But his eyes are bright and his lips are pressed together, probably to stop himself from smiling.

 

“We’ll see,” is all Sherlock says because John’s coming back. And Sherlock, amazingly, immediately latches onto John’s side. It feels so strange and Mike almost feels like he’s part of the drab wallpaper behind him. The fleeting thought of telling John what he’d gotten himself into disappears as soon as he sees the expression on John’s face when he looks at Sherlock. Protective, and Mike is positive it’s not just the leftover pheromones doing that.

 

Sherlock needs the danger. Mike knows that. It’s pretty obvious to anyone who looks at him. John knows that, understands it even. But there’s a big difference between helping solve petty crimes and reeling Sherlock in a drug ring. John wouldn’t like the idea one bit.

 

When Mike leaves half an hour later, he realizes that he’s forgotten to give Sherlock his number. For a moment he thinks of going back but…he’s already intruded enough.

 

* * *

 

 

“Alright?”

 

The question prompts no response, not even when John touches Sherlock’s hand. He’s distant, mentally and emotionally speaking. Physically, Sherlock is the most tactile John has ever seen him. He’s still pressed against John, one arm wrapped around his waist, fingers digging into his hip. It’s a little uncomfortable, but John doesn’t have the heart to remove his hand, not when John so rarely gets to see him like this. The cabbie has been giving them cheeky glances from the rear view mirror. Most likely he can _smell_ Sherlock and John hates it but not so much that he’d pick a fight with the cabbie—an Alpha, no doubt. Sherlock’s not in danger and the scent he’s giving off makes John want to protect him more than he wants to fuck him.

 

Not that that last one isn’t present, but still. Not so much.

 

They’ve been in the cab for less than fifteen minutes when Sherlock suddenly stirs, turns his head, and kisses him. He tastes like salt and cigarette smoke and as much as John wants to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, the cabbie (the fucking pervert) is watching. But then Sherlock sighs against his mouth, his hands skating restlessly over John’s thighs, and John’s resolve dissipates. For someone who has only ever kissed one person, Sherlock is alarmingly good. Well, good now. The first few times were not so good.

 

“What?” John murmurs when Sherlock slides his fingers up his shirt and hooks them to the waistband of his jeans. “You’re very tactile today.”

 

“Hmmm…”

 

John brings one hand to his hair and makes the mistake of scratching his scalp lightly. Sherlock fucking _moans_ then glares when John removes his hand. “Get some sleep when you get to your dorm, alright?”

 

“Not tired,” Sherlock mutters and John bites back a laugh.

 

“Sure.”

 

“I am not.”

 

He falls asleep five minutes later, though, and becomes surly when John wakes him up. “No, enough,” John tells him when Sherlock kisses him again, “you really need to sleep.”

 

“With you,” Sherlock says and John freezes. “Soon, anyway.”

* * *

 

Mike Stamford wakes early, far too early. It is an unpleasant awakening as well. He doesn’t mind the shrill ring of his alarm clock nor does he mind the upbeat tune his phone produces. He does, however, mind waking up to Sherlock Holmes standing at the foot of his bed, skinny arms crossed over his chest and glaring at him imperiously.

 

“What?” Mike says groggily. “Who’d let you in?”

 

“Myself. Tried texting, calling, then knocking but I underestimated how pedestrian humans can be when they succumb to basic needs.” Sherlock continues to glare at him as if it’s his flat and Mike is a stranger sleeping on Sherlock’s bed. Mike can see Sherlock’s impatience clearly but it’s not even six and Mike has been up all night worrying about what he’s gotten himself into.

 

“How’d you get my number?” He yawns and tries hard not to flinch under the murderous gaze Sherlock throws at him.

 

“I stole John’s phone when we left the restaurant.” He pushes Mike until he nearly rolls off the bed. “Come on!”

 

This is how Mike finds himself in Olivia’s place half an hour later with a manic Sherlock pacing in the living room. Olivia looks a little startled and so does Mike. It barely registers to him that Olivia, who has just woken up, is wearing a short nightie and an almost translucent robe.

 

“Jessica and I were really close, almost like sisters, actually,” Olivia tells them. She speaks slowly, carefully, and while Mike may not have Sherlock’s deductive skills, he can almost see what she’s thinking. Sherlock isn’t in his school uniform but he’s wearing a shirt and jeans instead of his usual semi-formal attire. The clothes make him look younger than he really is. “She always confided in me so I knew about the drugs. Speed. It’s not uncommon for students to buy them around the time of exams. I never tried them. I told her to quit but she wouldn’t. It wasn’t just the speed, though. She was sleeping with one of the dealers.”

 

Olivia stops and Mike can almost see Sherlock bristle at the pause. He stands up and begins to pace. “Keep talking,” he snaps. Olivia gives Mike another hesitant look before she continues.

 

“But then, after she killed herself…I received text messages. Death threats.” She shivers and wraps her arms around herself. “I don’t know who’s sending them but they keep saying that they want something from me. I don’t even know what that is.”

 

Sherlock finally stops pacing. Mike is not sure what is worse: Sherlock wearing the rug down or Sherlock looking at them with bright eyes and a contemplative smile. “Of course,” he says, “the only way we’re truly going to find out what prompted Jessica Dubont to kill herself is if we go to the dealers and pretend to buy something from them.”

 

Mike opens his mouth to protest but Olivia gets there before him. “That’s insane,” she cries. She turns to Mike and glares at him. “I should have gone to police. He’s sixteen—“

 

“Eighteen,” Sherlock corrects.

 

“Okay, not underage, but there is no way you’re going to them. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

“Don’t treat me like a child,” Sherlock retorts and Mike’s head begins to hurt. He’s not John. He can’t make Sherlock stop if he decides to rant. “I know what goes on in dealers’ minds. I have a _network_ of them.”

 

“You don’t know anything.”

 

“You want these threats to stop and you want to find out more about your friend’s death. I know how dealers work. Go to the police and you’ll end up dead in a ditch the moment you step out of the station.” Olivia flinches and so does Mike. “It will be easy. You did say lots of students go to them during finals week. All I need is a name. Dubont talked to you. Surely you know one.”

 

“Yes.” Olvia bites her lip. “Julian Trevor.”

 

And Sherlock _laughs_. Mike looks at him, startled to see the joy in his face. He feels a bit of fear and apprehension and he knows Olivia feels it to. Sherlock looks like he wants to clap his hands. “Oh brilliant,” he says. “This will be so easy. Julian Trevor! Of course.”

 

“Sherlock?”

 

But Sherlock’s already out of the flat. Mike can’t look at Olivia.

 

“Is he…is he really going to do it?”

 

Mike shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have—god, I knew this was a mistake.” He closes his eyes. “I seriously hope not,” he says but Mike knows it’s wishful thinking.

 

* * *

 

 

“Please, please don’t. It was a mistake, a huge, huge mistake,” Mike tells him when he finally catches Sherlock. “It was a stupid idea. Please don’t go and do something drastic. I’m begging you. John will kill me if anything happens to you. I’ll kill myself if anything happens to you.”

 

“Oh please, I know how to take care of myself.”

 

“You can’t always know everything!”

 

“Wrong.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock doesn’t ask Victor where Julian is. He does, however, ask help from Billy. “I don’t know him,” Billy admits. “But I bet Riley does.”

 

Riley is one of Billy’s many older brothers, one of the few he’s never interacted with before. A proper junkie. It’s obvious from the way he keeps twitching, from the track marks on his forearms. Withdrawal, but not long enough that he can’t control himself. The boy—merely two or three years older than him—sniffs and tells him that Julian buys the drugs from them. “’e gets about ten bags from us then ‘e sells ‘em to those posh kids, They don’t buy from us so we let Trevor do it. ‘e gives us ‘alf. But we’re not trading with ‘em anymore. ‘e didn’t pay us last time.”

 

‘Who else goes to you?”

 

“Nah, we go to ‘em. They’re always in one place, anyway. Bar called Blue Jay.”

 

He hands the brothers a few notes then hails a cab. The bar isn’t unfamiliar to him but he’s certainly never stepped in it before. It’s the usual haunt of the elitist university students Sherlock hates. Mostly Alphas who have nothing better to do other than spend far too much on alcohol and foreign cigarettes. It’s not easy to sneak in and the Alpha bouncer guarding the backdoor can only see him as ‘far too young’.

 

Money isn’t an answer. And insulting the guard would get him nowhere. Frustrated, Sherlock stands there and wonders what he should do when the doors suddenly open and a young woman steps out. “You,” she says when she spots Sherlock, her eyes widening, “come here, boy.”

 

Photography student, his mind quickly supplies. It takes a bit of convincing but the bouncer relents and Sherlock is dragged in the bar and shown to a small group of Alphas. “Look at this kid,” the girl exclaims. Her fingernails are digging into his shoulders and it _hurts_ but Sherlock bites back insults. “He’d make a perfect model!”

 

“Jesus, Anna, did you drag another minor in here?”

 

Julian Trevor isn’t anything like his brother. His hair is ginger and his eyes are grey and he’s shorter than Victor, stockier. But they make the same expressions. Julian stares at him in shock and it’s both unfamiliar and familiar. Not the first time he’s seen Julian in shock, though. Sherlock remembers all too well how Julian’s car felt against his body.

 

He grabs Sherlock by the arm and drags him in the what appears to be a broom closet. A very large broom closet. Sherlock’s eyes scan the room. The drug room, he thinks. He sees white powder on the edge of a table and a few beakers shoved underneath a desk.

 

“What do you want?” Julian drawls. “Victor causing trouble?” The bored expression turns into a smirk that Sherlock finds he absolutely despises. “Don’t tell me you want a fix, kiddo.”

 

“I want to know what happened to Jessica Dubont.”

 

 _Relationship was purely sexual. He hates her_. Julian’s eyes harden and there’s nothing in them that suggests love or even sadness. “Bitch offed herself,” Julian says matter-of-factly. “This is one of your ‘cases’ isn’t it? Who wants to know?”

 

“Obviously me. I’m the one asking, aren’t I?”

 

“Obviously,” Julian sneers. “Victor’s told me about you. You get bored, you search for a case, case comes to you, you solve it. Rinse and repeat, right? Boring life if you ask me.”

 

“Not asking.”

 

Julian laughs. “Fine. You want the full story, you’ll get it. But on one condition.”

 

“Name it.”

 

“You’re awfully brave,” Julian says. He stands up and pulls a drawer open. Sherlock watches him warily. He freezes when Julian holds up his find: a syringe.

 

“I dare you to take a hit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Julian Trevor is a douschebag. There are so many douschebags in this universe. I promise John and Sherlock in the next chapter there might be sex in the next chapter non graphic because I can't write porn but hey it's sex, right, and Sherlock's already all-grown up and shit and this is omegaverse so yay sex. (ALSO TOTALLY UNRELATED QUESTION BECAUSE I AM SERIOUSLY CONFUSED: how come in Brit shows they call high school college and college uni? I've been wondering about this since I first watched Skins three years ago)


	13. Death and Other Complicated Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's always something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR EDUCATING ME IN THE LAST CHAPTER. I love you guys. I would marry each and every one of you if I hadn't already promised myself to cheese pizza. Anyway, this is Sherlock on a case because I felt the story needs to show Sherlock starting out in his whole 'consulting detective' career. The idea for the stolen drugs was taken from the movie 'Traffic' (good, good movie). Sherlock's a bit of a jerk here (nothing new, though).

For a moment there’s nothing but silence.

 

Wait, no, that's not right.

 

Outside the small room, Sherlock can hear Julian’s companions talking. Someone has turned on the old jukebox at the corner of the bar and an upbeat pop song drifts in the air. But it seems that time has stopped (illogical, Sherlock knows). Julian stands at the desk, syringe in hand, that sardonic smile on his face.

 

“Fine,” Sherlock says. It breaks the spell. Julian’s eyes widen, almost comically so. He doesn’t drop the syringe, but for a moment his fingers fumble and it nearly slips. He adjusts his grip and the sardonic smile turns into one more sincere. Almost admiring.

 

“Awfully brave,” Julian says, “or incredibly stupid.”

 

“I want a fresh needle.”

 

“What do you think we are? An AIDS brothel? Of course we keep our needles clean.”

 

Julian pulls out a Bunsen burner, and with his back to Sherlock begins to prepare the drug. Sherlock stares at his back, notes how the muscles shift beneath his white shirt. _Swimmer, a moderately good one. Alpha, and an arrogant one at that, but not stupid. Or at least, not incompetent._ Sherlock knows the chemistry of drugs. He knows the business even more. Julian isn’t at the top of their trading system, but he certainly isn’t at the bottom, either, not when he so clearly has direct contact with the people they trade with. You have to be a little clever if you’re near the top.

 

Sherlock rests his arm on the table and watches as Julian binds his arm. He positions the needle directly on top of a thick blue vein throbbing underneath Sherlock’s pale skin. “You sure?” Julian asks.

 

“Of course.”

 

The needle pierces his skin. Julian is careful and professional at the same time. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t look at Sherlock with concern. When it’s done, Julian wipes away the pinprick of blood on his skin and sits back. “You’ll be feeling it soon,” he says and there’s no smile on his face. But Sherlock can see the amusement in his eyes and for a brief moment Sherlock marvels at how much they contrast from Victor’s.

 

“I won’t be feeling anything,” Sherlock tells him as he removes the binding. He flexes his hand. It’s numb; Julian bound it too tightly.

 

Julian looks at him lazily. “Oh? And why’s that?”

 

“You didn’t inject me with a narcotic. You injected me with water.”

 

When Julian doesn’t say anything, Sherlock continues, “Dubont stole too much from you, your suppliers are furious, and your business is dwindling. You can’t afford to drug me, not when the guard at the door clearly saw me go in. He knows what you do here and you pay him enough to keep him quiet. But he’s got strong morals, evident from how much he protested in allowing me inside. My current attire makes me look younger than my real age. He’s a father, has children. Omegas most likely. And like I said, lack of supplies. You wouldn’t waste even a single amount of cocaine on me.”

 

Julian stays still for a moment. But soon enough a smile breaks across his face. He throws his head back and laughs. “God, you’re entertaining!” he cries, clapping his hands for a brief moment. “You’re right,” he adds once he’s sobered. “Besides, I need your help, anyway. Can’t have you high on the job.

 

“You don’t want money. You’re more than rich enough. You’re doing this to stop being bored but whatever, I’ll throw in a little reward. Whenever you want information, I’ll give it you. No conditions attached.”

 

“And?”

 

“If you can get the coke back to us that would be very nice. But even if you can’t, if you just get the name of the person Dubont sold it to, then that’s fine as well. See, we caught her and we asked her. Denied it, of course. My friend, Ewan, he didn’t like that so we snuck in her house and searched. We found nothing. Girl might like to get around but she’s a smart one.”

 

Julian leans back and studies him. His eyes rake up and down Sherlock’s body. “You’re quite fit.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t flinch but his body tenses. It’s only for a moment but he suddenly feels Mathews’ hands around his wrists. There’s a disgusting taste in his mouth, one his mind barely registers is actually fear. It fades when he hears Julian laugh again, this time harshly. “I’m not going to rape you, alright?” he says. “I mean, you’re good-looking but I prefer females, anyway. Much more entertaining”

 

Sherlock glares at him. His eyes drop to Julian’s crotch. “Better get that rash treated, then,” he mutters and this time, Julian only glares at him.

 

“How about Olivia Henderson?” Sherlock asks. “Know anything about her?”

 

“Huh? Who’s that?”

 

_Not lying._

 

“No one,” Sherlock tells him. Julian shrugs it off. He stands up and leads Sherlock out through the backdoor with Jessica Dubont’s address in his pocket.

 

* * *

 

 

“What the bloody hell did you _do_?” John shouts, leaping up from the bench. Several students turn their heads to look at him but John’s past the point of caring. Mike bites his lip and looks down at his shoes.

 

“I just—I wasn’t thinking and I didn’t think he’d actually do it!” Mike pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, something he always does when he’s nervous. “I caught up with him, told him not to do it anymore. I just…I didn’t _think_.”

 

“No,” John says coldly, “you certainly didn’t.”

 

“But are you sure he went off? Maybe he just left his phone somewhere—”

 

“Mike, Sherlock always has to have the last word. He _always_ replies.” John shakes his head. “And I can’t _reach_ him. He’s shut me out.”

 

Mike remains quiet. Good. John wants to hit him, wants to hurt him so badly it makes his hands shake. But the rational part of his brain reminds him that this is _Mike_. He’s known him far longer than the others and Mike knows him. Mike’s helped him get out of trouble far too many times already and John can’t bring himself to do it. He knows he screws up. He should know that Mike screws up as well.

 

“Maybe you should let it go.”

 

“No.”

 

“John,” Mike begins and John hates his tone, hates how it makes him feel like he’s ten-years-old all over again, “you can’t always be there for him.”

 

But Mike doesn’t understand. John knows Sherlock can take care of himself but he remembers Sherlock getting hit by a car and goddamn it, John doubts he’ll ever forget that fucker Mathews.

 

“John,” Mike tries again but John shakes his head.

 

"Mike. Tell me everything."

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock’s arms are aching by the time he pulls himself up the window leading to Jessica Dubont’s room. It’s not an easy climb. The back of the building is a dump and Sherlock has fallen twice, landing in a heap on a pile of old rubbish. There are scratches on his arms, most of them shallow, but he landed in a bit of broken glass and his left arm is smeared with blood. There’s a sharp stinging pain there but Sherlock tells himself to ignore it. He’s used to ignoring pain, anyway. He wouldn’t survive his heats if he wasn’t used to it.

 

The room is quite feminine. Disgustingly so, actually. Sherlock eyes the flowered duvet and the ridiculous posters of various boy bands plastered to one side of the wall. He wipes the blood on the hem of his shirt. God, he bleeds far too much for such small wounds. Lack of nutrition, he thinks. John would know the specifics.

 

The place isn’t empty. The scent of frying bacon wafts in the air. There are dishes being moved around and he can hear, albeit faintly, a woman crying two doors down from the room he’s in. He can hear the thrumming of a bass guitar. An older brother possibly.

 

Sherlock moves quietly. The room is empty, hasn’t been slept in for days. The bed is neatly made and everything is arranged in a way that makes Sherlock feel like he’s stepped inside an Ikea magazine. The cleanliness is…unsettling. John, Sherlock thinks, would find it strange that he finds the orderliness of the room more disturbing than the fact that there was a dead body here only a few days ago.

 

He approaches the bookshelf near the bed which holds a great number of porcelain dolls. Sherlock takes one and holds it in his hand. The doll stares back at him with huge, dull eyes. Beautifully made. Having no girls in the family, Sherlock knows very little about dolls, but he remembers a cousin bragging about her collection. They’re expensive. Dubont isn’t rich so why on earth would she have these?

 

There’s a signature carved into the back of the head of the doll. Sherlock sets it down and pulls out another. Another signature. It’s familiar. Sherlock racks his brains to try and identify the artist. He’s seen it before. The dolls are clearly from one maker. He doesn’t actually need to see the signatures to confirm that. They all have the same noses, the same blank smiles.

 

He pulls out another and—to his surprise—there’s something stashed behind it. It’s a bottle of pills. Sleeping pills. Sherlock pops open the lid. Ah, yes, Dubont was an insomniac. Sherlock takes note of the frayed edge of the duvet, worn down by rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger, something Sherlock used to do when he was bored.

 

He takes a pill out and studies it. It’s white and smooth and when Sherlock returns it to the bottle, it leaves traces of white powder on his thumb—

 

Oh.

 

Well, no wonder.

 

Quickly, he rummages in the drawer of the bedside table. Magazines, old chewing gum wrappers, a stupid thriller novel. Sherlock flips the pages and grins triumphantly when something flutters out.

 

Of course.

 

The box is torn and has been pressed flat but Sherlock can still make out the words ‘pregnancy test’ at the bottom.

 

Excitement rushes through his veins. He makes the mistake of leaping to his feet. He jostles the bedside table slightly and while nothing falls, there is a pause to the sobbing of the woman two doors down. Sherlock doesn’t wait to be found out. He puts everything back quickly and goes out through the window once more.

 

The climb down is even harder than up but Sherlock manages not to fall. A few passersby look at him when he walks out of the alleyway and a little girl holding her mother’s hand points at his arms. “You alright, mate?” an acne-ridden teenagers asks. Sherlock shrugs him off.

 

He must look insane, and when he passes a shop with a tinted front window, he sees now why people are looking at him. His reflection stares back at him. He looks wild, his hair messed by the wind and his blue shirt smeared with blood. There are fresh cuts on his arms which, Sherlock thinks, make him look like an attention-seeking teenager with a serious case of depression. They’ve stopped bleeding and have scabbed over but they do hurt. Not enough to become irritating but the mild stinging on his skin keeps him in check.

 

No time to think about them, though. He steps back, turns around and—

 

Freezes. Sherlock stands still and stares back at John.

 

* * *

 

 

John isn’t mad. He’s _furious_.

 

“…the bloody hell do you think you’re doing? It’s one thing to solve cold cases and go after idiots stealing from Tesco but involving yourself in a case with drugs?”

 

It’s not just drugs, Sherlock tells him. It turned into a murder case as well. Sherlock wants to tell him about discovering Jessica Dubont’s pregnancy and how her sleeping pills were actually heat suppressants, something that, if taken when carrying a child, would definitely kill you. But John only looks angrier so Sherlock keeps his mouth shut and lets John shout again.

 

“Oh that’s bloody brilliant then!”

 

John points out the things he _thinks_ are wrong. Sneaking in other people’s houses, going off alone when he was specifically told not to do it anymore, climbing walls and getting hurt and by the state of his arms he’s going to need a lot of tetanus shots. John says he should be at home with his mother since its Saturday and he really should stop making his family worry sick over him. “Mycroft can’t always be there for you when you get in trouble. He has kids to take care of,” John adds and Sherlock has had it. He isn’t a bloody _child_. He isn’t some weak Omega either who constantly needs saving.

 

“I don’t need Mycroft! I don’t need anyone!”

 

He’s aware that he’s yelling. People are looking now and Sherlock wishes that they would all go away. John looks hurt and Sherlock feels strange, like something has grown and died in his chest. He can’t look at John and John’s not looking at him either but Sherlock can’t stop himself.

 

“I hate that you’re always here. I hate that you’re always thinking that I need you when I can do things fine on my own,” he mutters and he wants to shut up but his mouth has betrayed him and his eyes are betraying him as well because they find their way to John’s face one more. Sherlock isn’t sure what’s worse: the hurt expression or the blank one John’s currently wearing. He feels a coldness in his gut and he realizes that John has finally managed to do something Sherlock never thought he could do. John’s shut him out. Panic grips Sherlock. He needs to know what John’s thinking, what he’s feeling, but he stands his ground and tells himself to stop it. There’s a case, he reminds himself. Settle this later.

 

“I don’t have time for this,” he says and he walks away from John, aware of the people staring at him. Sherlock wills himself not to look back. He counts the minutes in his head and when he reaches ten, he finally succumbs to the urge. But John isn’t there. Sherlock doesn’t know why. It’s illogical—he sent John away—but something in him is heavily disappointed that John didn’t follow.

 

* * *

 

 

Olivia Henderson is surprised to find the young Omega Mike brought with him standing in the middle of her living room, looking like he belongs there. He looks a little worse for wear but Olivia only feels panic rise in her chest. “What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice sounding small, even to her own ears. She doesn’t trust Sherlock. He makes her feel uneasy, makes her feel like she’s being slowly being unravelled and preyed upon.

 

Sherlock doesn’t explain how he got in. He gets straight to the point. “I need that,” he says, pointing at the huge pink bracelet Jess had given to her as a present three years ago. It’s a little joke of theirs, passing the bracelet back and forth until they forget that it’s really Olivia’s. Jess had handed it to her a month ago and school and work had made her forget to exchange it again.

 

“Why?” she asks.

 

“That’s not what you think it is. That’s what Alex Harrison and Julian Trevor are looking for.”

 

Olivia blinks. The name is familiar but she can’t put a face to the name. Sherlock reaches out his hand and, as if on autopilot, Olivia lets the bracelet slip from her arm and fall into Sherlock’s hand. “Alex Harrison studied in your university as a student who majored in Sculpting. He changed his name to Lex Hare as soon as he graduated and started a business in making porcelain dolls. My cousin collects some of his work.”

 

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

 

“Alex Harrison made a replica of your bracelet.” Sherlock pulls at it and turns it inside out. “Look,” he says. Olivia stares at the clasp and sees that part of the bracelet has faded. “It’s cocaine, highly-pressurized. Crack cocaine, dissolvable by acid. Your sweat isn’t strong enough to return it to its base form but it’s done enough damage.”

 

“I—”

 

“Your ‘friend’ stole a few bags of cocaine from Trevor. She took it to Harrison and asked him to turn it into a bracelet and several of her porcelain dolls so that Trevor wouldn’t find it. Of course, Trevor didn’t find any of it but he suspected and continued hunting her down.”

 

“But what does Alex have to do with this?”

 

“Easy. Dubont was pregnant, most likely five weeks gone. Your friend got around. She slept with Trevor and several other dealers but Alex became obsessed with her. Harrison didn’t know about the others but he found out. Dubont must have said something wrong. She was going to trade the coke herself to get an abortion, but Alex found out about her pregnancy as well and he wanted it to be his child. It’s just a case of sentiment. Harrison got jealous, Dubont refused, and Harrison snuck in her home and exchanged her sleeping pills with heat suppressants. They look so alike it would be an easy mistake to make. But heat suppressants are less compact and leave dust. Dubont took two at a time. An addict would do that. One heat suppressant consumed during pregnancy is enough to poison you. A second would surely kill you.

 

“Alex wants to get rid of all the cocaine which is why he’s been sending you text messages, threatening you to give it up. Of course, he didn’t specifically ask for it. It would be strange for someone to get so stressed over a ten quid bracelet.”

 

Olivia feels sick. “He murdered her…”

 

“Well, yes.”

 

“But how’d you find out?”

 

“I snuck in both of their homes. Harrison lives close by. It was quite easy to—”

 

She doesn’t know who’s more stunned. Sherlock doesn’t look shocked but his eyes are wide and his mouth too tense. There’s a red handprint on his left cheek, quite visible because of his pale skin. “Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she stammers but Sherlock says nothing. He’s still too tense but he bids her a polite goodbye and leaves with Jessica’s bracelet in hand.

 

* * *

 

 

“You did all that?” Julian says—no sarcasm this time—when the bracelet is handed to him. “What are you? Some kind of freak?”

 

Sherlock says nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not that their words hurt. It’s not that he was bothered by Olivia slapping him in her shock and anger and it’s not like he felt like a victim when Trevor’s friends looked at him strangely when he told them how he recovered some of the missing cocaine. Julian has given him free reign to the bar and to asking them questions (which will only work if Sherlock never tells anyone who has the authority to imprison them what happened, meaning Harrison will remain free man. The thought of letting a murderer on the loose doesn’t disturb Sherlock, and anyway, he’d have to do a lot of explaining if Greg where to find out). But Sherlock doesn’t feel the rush of elation that comes to him every time he succeeds in a case. There is an empty feeling in his gut. It’s not hunger. Sherlock is aware of his basic needs, has to be in order to ignore them later on.

 

It must be John then because when he allows his mind to think of him, the empty feeling turns into a pained one. He has the urge to wrap his arms around John and tell him he’s sorry and that he’s a prick and that he loves—

 

Ah. Well, that’s new.

 

No, not new. But that’s the first time Sherlock’s ever associated it with a word. He’s not entirely sure he likes it.

 

John doesn’t look happy to see him but he’s not shouting and Sherlock takes it as a good sign. He’s changed into an old shirt that’s far too big for him (his dad’s) and a pair of jeans that have flecks of white paint on them (Harry’s fault). He’s not shutting himself off anymore and Sherlock feels relieved that he can read John’s emotions easily again. There’s anger and hurt but there’s concern as well. The last is the one John chooses to display. John has switched to his ‘doctor mode’ and has left the room to get a bottle of iodine and some bandages for his scabbed arms.

 

It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that John chooses to be nice to him. There are few days when Sherlock just wants John to stop being so in control of himself and todays seems to be one of them.

 

It’s easy to test John’s patience but it’s hard to make him truly break out of the calm shell he lives in. He’s yelled at Sherlock before, even worse than when he’d yelled at him in front of the shop a while ago, and it had both made Sherlock frantic and elated. He wants to strip John of all his morals, wants him in the raw. But when John comes back and cleans his wounds, both of them are surprised when the words that fall out of Sherlock’s mouth are, “I’m sorry.”

 

It’s not that Sherlock has never said them to John before. But he says them so rarely that it always surprises John (and Sherlock must admit, even him). John stays quiet and just as Sherlock begins to feel the first signs of panic, John brings his hand to his lips and kisses his fingers lightly.

 

“Me, too,” John says. He doesn’t elaborate and Sherlock’s glad for that. He realizes that he doesn’t want John emotional right now. He’s tired. Not physically, though. But he’s longing for something to quiet his mind. His violin isn’t here, unfortunately. It’s in the room he shares with Victor. Sherlock wants to feel it in his hands but there’s John and…Sherlock doesn’t want to leave him either.

 

“You can sleep here, if you want to,” John tells him. He lets go of Sherlock’s hand and gets up. “I’ll get some pillows and—”

 

Sherlock grabs his wrist.

 

“No.”

 

“What?”

 

“I mean…” Words are failing him right now. He shouldn’t be embarrassed. This is John for heaven’s sake. He’s seen him naked once when they were kids and he’s seen him cry several times. But this…This feels different.

 

“I mean,” Sherlock tries again. It leaves him frustrated and John senses it, of course he does. His face is a little red and he won’t look at Sherlock but he nods and says, “Sleep. Right. It would be…much more comfortable, wouldn’t it?”

 

“Right.”

 

He’s not asking for sex. Not that he doesn’t want it. Oh he’d very much like to know what sex would be like. What sex with _John_ would be like. He doesn’t just want to sleep beside John either. But telling John that the reason why he’d like to stay with him is because he’s _afraid_ (ridiculous, disgusting, appallingly _human_ ) John might suddenly disappear. He wants John mad sometimes because John draws the lines far too clearly and it’s just tempting to put one foot on the other side. But he doesn’t want John gone.

 

“Mycroft will kill me,” John says. He flushes even more and Sherlock finds it absolutely fascinating. “I mean, because…you know, he’s a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to you.

 

"I'm not implying anything just...um, if you're already tired you can..."

 

“John,” Sherlock says wearily. He stands up and kisses him carefully, “shut up.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's up to you guys whether they did something or not. Nah, I'm lying. They certainly did...something which will be elaborated in the next chapter (that chapter's a bit...well, you know, and I did promise sex in this chapter but it didn't fit so...everything went there). I realized that this story will be much shorter than I thought it would be because I'll be omitting a lot of things. I've mentioned in one chapter that John will go to the army but I don't think I'll write about him in Afghanistan (so sadly, no John in uniform). For those of you who don't know yet, this story has a sequel (where Sherrinford plays an important role, and no, I've not forgotten about him. I didn't bring him to this story just to make Sherlock's life even more messed up) which isn't teenlock anymore...
> 
> Well, actually I still don't know how long this will be but I'm guessing it might not reach twenty. I think.


	14. The Birds, The Bees, and The French

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> UST. UST everywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't speak French. I mean, I still struggle with English sometimes. So there are mistakes, I think. Don't worry. I kept it to a minimum because I cannot French.

Sherlock, to John’s annoyance (and extreme arousal), has become obsessed with his hands.

 

It doesn’t matter where they are and who they’re with. John will be eating a sandwich while talking to Bill on the phone and Sherlock will just stand there and stare at John’s hands as if they’re the most fascinating thing in the world. His obsession isn’t limited to just looking either. They don’t hold hands, not even when they’re alone together. Public displays of affections are beneath Sherlock and John’s never felt entirely comfortable with the idea either. And Sherlock rarely likes to be touched.

 

It isn’t easy being in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes. John supposes that the reason why their empathy link was made before being permanently bonded is so that it will help him understand Sherlock better. It doesn’t help much, though. Sherlock can close in on himself and does so most of the time, especially when he’s away from John and doing something dangerous. The only times he breaks out of it is either when he’s very happy or frightened. John’s not sure if he likes Sherlock as his usual seemingly emotionless self more than when he’s not hiding himself from John. It makes John feel weird, almost embarrassed, when Sherlock’s frightened or nervous because it’s just not like him. And it makes John angry as well, angry and protective because Sherlock doesn’t get scared easily. John knows it’s illogical to get mad because, like Mike said, he can’t always be there for him and Sherlock can take care of himself.

 

Touching Sherlock is even more difficult. It’s not like he _can’t touch_. He can do the small things—a hand on his arm to steady him, fingers brushing the inside of his wrist, carding through his hair, tucking a curly strand behind one ear. Those are easy, invited, even. Snogging is easier. He’ll only have to look at Sherlock and Sherlock will immediately straddle his lap and kiss him until John begins to feel lightheaded from lack of oxygen. But an arm around his shoulders will make him tense and putting a hand on the small of his back, even for a few seconds, will earn John a full-out glare. But there are days when Sherlock will drape himself over John’s back and press his forehead against the juncture of John’s neck and shoulder, hands clasped over John’s midsection.

 

But now John’s allowed to touch or rather, Sherlock’s allowing himself to be touched. He keeps rubbing his thumb over John’s pulse point. John thinks Sherlock may be conducting an experiment on the roughness of his skin or something like that (he doesn’t really want to find out). It doesn’t surprise him, though. He knows the reason for the change, and every time he thinks of it his face burns so much he’s positive he resembles a fresh tomato.

 

It was John’s fault, of course. But John also has to blame Sherlock because if it weren’t for Sherlock and his insistence in keeping John pressed against him, if it weren’t for Sherlock’s warmth and sweet scent and those long, coltish limbs possessively wrapped around John’s body, then none of it would have happened.

 

“John.” Sherlock had stared at him, face awash with both interest and confusion. John hadn’t wanted to wake him up but his body was a traitorous thing. And Sherlock looking sleepy and almost innocent in John’s shirt and too-short pyjama bottoms certainly didn’t do anything to help get rid of his erection.

 

“Sorry,” John said because what else was he supposed to say?

 

John didn’t ask, then, and he’s afraid to anyway. He supposes that whatever reason that caused Sherlock to climb on top of him and snake one hand southwards will forever remain a mystery to him. He’s sure Sherlock’s never been with anyone but he has heats so he knows sex, and he’s a genius with a curiosity that can kill an army of cats so he knows how things work. And of course John knows it, has done it, in fact. But he didn’t fuck Sherlock that night, at least, not in the way he’d envisioned. He did do a lot with his fingers, though, which is probably why Sherlock’s currently obsessed with them. It was wonderful seeing Sherlock coming apart like that although he’d made John look away at the last second.

 

It’s pretty unfair.

 

He’s left John aching for more, and while John has never had trouble asking for a quick shag or the occasional hand job, it’s different when it comes to Sherlock. He’s a virgin, yes, but he’s not pure as the driven snow and he sure as hell isn’t innocent. It’s strange but John supposes it’s because he’s known Sherlock for so long and Sherlock was like a brother to him first. There’s also the fact that Mycroft will kill him. Sherlock’s eighteen already but from the way Mycroft shields him from the world (something Sherlock absolutely hates) it’s as if he’s only seven. It’s an Alpha/Omega sibling thing, John supposes. He wouldn’t know with Harry being a Beta. Or maybe it’s just a Mycroft thing.

 

Sherlock wants it of course. He keeps sneaking glances at John when he thinks John’s not looking, and when John stares at him for too long, his cheeks will flush ever so slightly. Sometimes he’ll bite his lip and fidget in his seat or he’ll scratch the inside of his wrist as if his lust has turned into an itch that might go away if he digs deep enough. What they both know is he’ll never ask. John can’t imagine Sherlock coming up to him and asking him to fuck him. At least, not in those words. He’s too proud for that. He wants John to make the move and John would do it, really, if only he knew how.

 

It’s annoying. And incredibly, frustratingly arousing.

 

“John!”

 

His thoughts return to the present and with them, the nerve endings of his fingers. The edge of the knife causes minor damage to his epidermis. His fingertips are calloused, thankfully, so there’s no bleeding. The chopped onions have avoided a catastrophe. “Oops,” he says, ignoring Harry’s customary eye roll.

 

His mother sighs. “Let me,” she says and John gladly hands her the knife. “You’re obviously distracted.”

 

Blood rushes to his face and judging from the smirk Harry sends his way, it’s glaringly obvious. This is getting ridiculous, he thinks. He’s twenty-one for God’s sake, not a fourteen-year-old who’d gotten caught masturbating by his overbearing mother (happened to his friend, Patrick, not to him). But then John will remember Sherlock’s face and how he looked underneath John, telling him not to look before—

 

Damn it, John, stop it. It’s not a good idea to get an erection in front his mother and his little sister.

 

In a way, John’s glad Mycroft’s currently keeping Sherlock out of London. He knows Sherlock hates it. He loves London and hates being kept in the estate. Also, something happened between Sherlock and Mycroft, something that John doesn’t want to ask about. He made the mistake once and Sherlock had been upset. Not sad, of course. But upset in a way that made John grit his teeth in order not to pummel Sherlock for ripping a few of John’s books apart (he later said he’d actually done him a favour as he’d helped the world by getting rid of a few of John’s more disgusting thriller novels). With Sherlock gone, John’s able to concentrate more. Now if only snippets of that night will stop popping up in his mind, along with that time Sherlock stuck John’s fingers in his mouth (experiment but John has his suspicions).

 

“Have you heard from Sherlock lately?” John’s mother asks and for a brief moment, John fears that she might have heard his thoughts (is it possible to wash one’s mind with soap?). John saves himself by shrugging nonchalantly, although it doesn’t save him from Harry who’s raised her eyebrow at his embarrassment.

 

“I don’t know. We don’t really talk.”

 

“Yeah, Mum,” Harry says, grinning, “they don’t really ‘talk’.”

 

Fortunately his mother doesn’t get Harry’s jibe. John delivers a swift kick to her shin which Harry returns. Her kicks are dangerous, her shoes even more. John and his mother think that it might just be a phase but it’s still annoying. John doesn’t really approve of the whole goth/punk façade Harry’s playing at but as long as he keeps his mouth shut about it, Harry won’t make any more crude jokes about him and Sherlock. Not that John really minds but that’s not exactly something you’d like your mother to hear, even if she isn’t a prude.

 

Before Harry can kick him again, John’s phone rings, making both of them jump. “Phone sex,” she whispers and John nearly kicks her again but stops when he sees that the text has come from Sherlock.

 

Outside –SH

 

John stares at the screen. Sherlock can’t mean outside his house?

 

The phone rings again.

 

Yes, outside your house, John. Don’t be an idiot and let me in. –SH

 

“Mum?”

 

“Yes, John?”

 

“Sherlock’s outside. Should I go—”

 

“Of course! Let him in!” She sets the knife down and before John can protest has already run to the front door. Harry groans and mutters something about posh twats and John groans as well, not because he doesn’t want to see Sherlock but because putting his mother and Sherlock in the same room is never a good thing for John’s self-esteem.

 

“John, dear, why didn’t you tell me Sherlock was going to visit?”

 

“I didn’t know,” John admits as he looks up.

 

His heart does that stupid mini heartburn upon seeing Sherlock who stares back at him with a small smile on his face. “Hello,” Sherlock says, smiling politely for John’s mother’s sake. But there’s that wicked gleam in his eyes, the one that says _hi John, I’d really like to push you against the wall and snog you right now_. His eyes drop to John’s hands and John quickly stuffs them in his pockets. He tries to look disapproving but fails. Miserably.

 

“Will you stay for dinner, Sherlock?” John’s mother asks and when Sherlock shakes his head, John sighs, relieved. His mother absolutely adores Sherlock. She thinks he’s God’s gift to mankind and thinks that he’s good for John despite the fact that Sherlock, bless him, is a human magnet for trouble. Sherlock, of course, plays the part well. He’s polite and sociable and even manages not to start a fight with Harry even though he’s itching for it.

 

John likes that his mother approves. But his mother has developed the habit of telling Sherlock every embarrassing thing that happened to John when he was a kid. There have been enough stories of how two-year-old John got his head stuck in a fence, thank you very much.

 

“I came to invite John, actually,” Sherlock says. “It’s my grandmother’s fiftieth wedding anniversary two days from now and according to the invitation—”

 

“And Mycroft,” John says before he can stop himself.

 

Sherlock glares at him. “Yes, and according to my dear brother as well, I’m supposed to bring him.”

 

“Where will this be held?”

 

“France,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly.

 

* * *

 

 

It is later and Sherlock has left and John’s mother, John’s dear sweet mother, is doing her best to kill him.

 

“Mum! Oh my god, stop!”

 

Those lectures when he was in grammar school were bad enough. But hearing the word ‘sex’ come out of your mother’s mouth is even worse. John wants to burn his ears. There’s a knife on the counter but it’s not near enough. John is trapped, trapped in their kitchen with Harry nowhere in sight and with his mother re-enacting a scene that happened when John was still learning about the birds and the bees.

 

“Now, John, don’t be such a prude,” she says calmly. How can she be calm? They are talking about sex! It is one thing to talk about sex with a fellow student or a lecturer, it is quite another thing to talk about it with your mother. “It’s perfectly natural. It happens to people who are in love and it happens to you Alphas and Omegas more often. And since you and Sherlock are already bonded, I don’t see what the problem is. Your father and I—”

 

John freezes. “Mum, I know you love me. Please stop.”

 

“Your father and I had sex, as well. A lot before you were born, actually.”

 

John wants to throw up. This is worse than all of those stupid American slasher films he watched with his friends. The ones with zombie cowboys and drunken teenagers, even. This is how bad it is.

 

“Mum, stop it!”

 

"It’s a wonderful, beautiful thing. But I don’t approve of pregnancy, John. Well, at least, not while you and Sherlock are still in uni. Oh you'd make wonderful children! Your nose and Sherlock's pretty eyes! But I don't want to be a grandmother yet so you’d better control those urges, young man—”

 

“Mum, remember. Your son is training to be a doctor. I know how things work.”

 

“But there’s also the risk of STD’s so if you’re going to engage in sexual intercourse, darling, use a condom.”

 

“Oh god…”

 

* * *

 

Greg isn’t surprised to find John trailing behind Sherlock, nor is he surprised that John is carrying most of Sherlock’s things. They’re arguing again, or at least, John is saying something and Sherlock is doing his best to ignore him in favour of his phone.

 

“Hey, John,” he greets once they’re close enough.

 

“Hey.” The twins immediately surround him. Greg watches as John ruffles their hair. “Mycroft here?” he asks once Beatrice releases his leg.

 

“No. He’s still doing something but he’ll catch up. How’d Sherlock convince you to come?”

 

“My mother insisted,” John grumbles. “We were supposed to go to Scotland and visit my Aunt Margo but apparently this is more important than seeing my new cousin. Harry’s furious with me. Not blaming her. I wouldn’t want to be stuck in Scotland without company.” He winces and moves one bag to his other shoulder. He’s gotten skinnier. Stress, maybe. “What are they like?”

 

“The French relatives? Normal. They don’t tell you what you’ve eaten for breakfast and they don’t blurt out all the embarrassing things you’ve done if that’s what you’re asking. I think.” Greg shrugs and grins. “I don’t speak French. They’ll speak to you in English if you talk to them but when they’re with each other, it’s all Eiffel Towers and baguettes.”

 

“So we won’t know if we’re being insulted?”

 

“Pretty much. I’ve only met them once when the twins were born.” Greg bites his lip. “They’re nice. Just be careful with their grandmother. She’s very conservative.”

 

* * *

 

John has been to France only once in his life. He can only remember bits of it as Harry hadn’t even been born when they’d gone. He does remember being carried around on his father’s shoulders a lot and he remembers a young woman trying to teach him French. He tells Greg this while Greg shifts Beatrice’s weight to his other arm. “I tried eating snails,” John says. He pauses. “I don’t think I liked it very much.”

 

“I don’t like French food very much, either.”

 

* * *

 

The place they’re staying at isn’t anything like John imagined. It’s an old three-storey building that may have been built in the 1800’s. It’s not like the Holmes’ estate which is one enormous mansion set in what John has always called a baby forest. It’s smaller for one thing and the plants here look like they’re maintained on a daily basis, unlike in Sherlock’s place where you have to be careful not to touch anything poisonous. Strange sculptures are scattered all over the garden. John has to bite his lip in order not to laugh at Greg, who almost falls flat on his face because of a gargoyle the size of a garden gnome, half-hidden in a thick patch of grass the gardener must have missed.

 

Sherlock’s mother lectures him in French. John doesn’t understand it but whatever it is, it surely doesn’t do anything to alleviate the bad mood Sherlock has fallen into upon stepping out of the plane (a private plane, John thinks, trying his best not to roll his eyes. Mycroft’s such a twat). He grabs John’s hand as they make their way inside and nothing about his grip is romantic or even clinical. By the time they’ve made it to the living room, John’s hand is completely numb.

 

There are four people in the room: someone John assumes is a maid, a boy around Sherlock’s age with his dark hair and pale skin, and an elderly couple sitting in an old-fashioned settee. “Good luck,” Greg tells him. “We’ll be in our rooms. They haven’t met you yet so try and make a good impression. Try to act like a 19th Century gentleman. She’s really...difficult”

 

“That’s a relief.”

 

Sherlock’s mother and the others leave the room, leaving him and Sherlock with the four strangers. The old man looks half-dead but the old woman’s eyes are sharp and judgemental. She scowls at their joined hands but Sherlock doesn’t let go.

 

“My grandmother, Lucille Bateau, and my grandfather, Nicolas Bateau,” he says to John. He turns to the aged couple. “Grand-mère, Grand-père, this is John.”

 

Grandpa Nicolas snorts. He’s a small, wrinkled man with only a few strands of egg-white hair on his head and the greenest eyes John has ever seen. They must be blind, though, because when he sits up and looks at Sherlock, he asks, “Henri?”

 

“No. _Sherlock.”_

 

“Ah, yes, Sherlock,” Lucille croaks. Dark brown eyes peer at John suspiciously. She looks like Sherlock’s mother only much, much older. “This is your husband, then?”

 

John blinks. “Husband?” he stammers.

 

“C’est mon fiancé,” Sherlock says to his grandfather who, John guesses, probably knows little English because he only moves when Sherlock reverts to French. “We bonded when I was six. We’ll bond permanently when I’m twenty-one.”

 

 _“Fiancé?”_ John mouths and Sherlock merely shrugs.

 

“Eighteen and no children yet,” the old woman mutters to her husband in what John supposes she thinks must be a whisper. In truth it’s short of screaming. John is actually surprised that Nicolas hasn’t moved away. “Useless. When I was Sherlock’s age, I had tons of little ones.”

 

The old man blinks sleepily. He tenses when he sees John. “Qui est cet homme?” he demands, pointing one shaky finger at him.

 

“Grand-père,” Sherlock says wearily, “C’est mon fiancé. John. _Jean.”_

 

“Jean? Jean Gerbault?” John does not know who Jean Gerbault is but he must have done something awful to Sherlock’s grandfather because the old man is looking at him like he wants to plunge his cane in John’s skull. “Salaud!”

Sherlock grits his teeth and John worries he might suddenly cause a scene. Thankfully, his grandmother jabs her elbow between her husband’s ribs and yells, “Ne sois pas stupide! Jean Gerbault’s dead, you old fool!”

 

This seems to silence the old man because he sits back and, to John’s relief, relinquishes his grip on the cane. “My husband is senile,” Lucille explains. She beckons John to come closer. Reluctantly, Sherlock releases his fingers and John steps forward.

 

There is a lot of poking and prodding and a lot of French that John cannot follow. John looks back at Sherlock who has narrowed his eyes at his grandmother. John knows what it means and even though it’s rude he steps away from Lucille’s sharp fingernails and says in a loud voice, “It’s very nice to meet you but my…fiancé and I are tired from the trip.” He doesn’t mention that it barely took them two hours to get here but Grandpa Nicolas seems to buy it. Sherlock’s grandmother, though, doesn’t. “We’ll see you later.”

 

The dark-haired boy sitting by the piano finally stirs. Lucille says something to him and with a barely suppressed roll of his eyes, he stands up and leads them out the room. “Grand-mère is as vicious as ever,” he tells Sherlock with a heavy French accent. He looks at John and if there’s disapproval there, John doesn’t see it. He has Nicolas’ green eyes but they’re expressionless and John doubts he’s doing it on purpose. “I’m Sherlock’s cousin, Mehdi. I have been instructed to show you to your room.”

 

“Room?”

 

“Yes, room.” Mehdi stares at him. “Our grandparents do not approve of Omegas running about without their mates. They think we're lascivious.” Both Mehdi and Sherlock scowl at this. John realizes that they look quite similar. The dark hair and pale skin, of course, but there’s the lithe build and strangely-shaped eyes and aquiline nose. At eighteen, Mehdi is not just an Omega, but a permanently bonded one.

 

“The moment I had my first heat,” he says to John. “The Bateaus are more conservative than Sherlock’s father’s family and they regard our kind with little respect. Our family consists mostly of Betas so whenever there is an Omega born in the family, we are bonded early. No pre-bonding for us so we don't know who we're ending up with.”

 

“That’s awful.”

 

“Really, John,” Sherlock grumbles. “Have you never wondered why our mother is so young?”

 

They don’t say anything anymore after that. The room Mehdi shows them smells of honeysuckle. Fitting, as each bedroom has been named after a flower. “I’d rather it was named The Poison Ivy Room,” Sherlock mutters as he lays himself down on the bed. Quite a small bed, John thinks, and he flushes when he thinks of how Sherlock will be pressed against him tonight. If he chooses to sleep, that is.

 

John tears his eyes away from Sherlock’s long, lean body so he can unpack his bags. “Your grandparents seem nice,” he lies.

 

“They’re awful. Strictly conservative. Had I been raised in France I would have been bonded to someone as soon puberty hit me. They think pre-bonding is a waste of time. Grand-mère doesn’t approve of you. She thinks you’re too young. Ordinary, she said. Mehdi’s husband is older than him by five years.”

 

John frowns. “And Greg?”

 

“Grand-mère likes no one.”

John shakes his head. “It’s good you’re a Holmes then,” he tells him as sorts through his clothes.

 

“I suppose.” John hears the bed creak. He looks over his shoulder and sees that Sherlock has rolled onto his side and is now staring at the contents of his bag with a strange look. “We’re only here for three days,” he says slowly. “You can’t honestly expect to use all of that.”

 

“All of what—”

 

The words die in his mouth as soon as he sees the four boxes of condoms stuffed between two of his jumpers. “What the—” he stammers. He doesn’t remember putting any of them there. But they’re here and glaringly obvious amidst his earth-tone jumpers. John looks at one box and immediately drops it. They’re ribbed. And cherry-flavoured.

 

"My bloody mother," John groans.

 

“Three days, John,” Sherlock says. His voice sounds closer and when John looks up, he sees Sherlock looking down at him calculatingly and while it shouldn’t affect him in that way, John finds that being the sole focus of Sherlock’s attention is highly arousing. He buries the boxes beneath his jumpers quickly and mentally notes himself to either yell at his mother or thank her profusely later.

 

When Sherlock kisses him, it’s always careful, calculating, as if he’s mentally recording the feel of John’s lips against his. John’s nature doesn’t agree with this but he fights off the urge to take and just let Sherlock take the lead. It doesn’t really take long before Sherlock’s kisses become more insistent and when his hands have found their way to John’s back, urging him to press closer, John lets himself lose a little of his control.

 

They end up on the bed somehow. John doesn’t really have time to think of it, doesn’t have time to think of anything, actually, because Sherlock does that thing with his tongue that always makes John groan and press closer to him. “Off,” Sherlock demands, hands tugging the hem of his shirt impatiently. Didn’t lock the door, John thinks for a brief moment before Sherlock practically attacks him and pushes him until his back hits the mattress.

 

“Jesus, you’re strong for such a skinny guy,” John mutters as he watches Sherlock throw his shirt to one corner of the room. John can’t help but stare as Sherlock removes his own shirt before he straddles his lap.

 

“Nothing you haven’t seen before, I’m sure.” He’s trying to look casual but there’s a pink flush on his cheeks. John reaches out to put a hand on his chest and Sherlock even bites his lip as he trails it lower until his fingers are hooked to the waistband of his jeans.

 

“Are you sure you’re not a CG effect or something?”

 

Sherlock grins down at him, and to the annoyance of the Alpha part in John’s brain, pins him down by pressing his hands on his shoulders.

 

“Told you I can defend myself.”

 

“Whatever. I’m still stronger than you.”

 

To prove it, he reverses their position and pins Sherlock by his wrists. Sherlock struggles for a moment then gives up when John nips his throat. Carefully, not enough to break the skin. Sherlock’s not in heat so they can’t make their bond permanent but John supposes it might not be such a good idea to mark Sherlock while they’re staying with a group of traditionalists.

 

Sherlock’s looking at his hands again. John laughs as he relinquishes his grip on Sherlock. He moves off him but Sherlock secures him in place by pressing his knees against his ribcage.

 

“Will you stop looking at my hands?”

 

“You’re really good with them.” Sherlock smirks at him and casually drapes one leg over John’s shoulder. “ _Really_ good.”

 

“Emphasis on the ‘really’. I’m flattered.”

 

“You should be.”

 

John dips his head down and kisses the corner of Sherlock’s mouth before he makes his way down. He realizes that they're halfway to sex already and there is no going back. Not even the thought of Lucille and Nicolas can stop him. They put them in one room for God's sake, what did they expect? He thinks that if they’re going to this properly then he should at least get up and grab one of the boxes in his bag. But Sherlock smells so good and tastes even better. Also, he makes noises. Really beautiful noises like whimpers and moans and low whines when John doesn’t give him what he wants. He’s not loud. Not yet, anyway. Because thanks to _that night_ John has learned exactly what makes Sherlock Holmes scream.

 

“Fuck,” Sherlock swears as John traps his zipper between his teeth. He’s never given a blowjob before but it can’t be too hard, right?

 

Too hard. Stupid puns.

 

Before he can do anything, though, Sherlock tugs him up and kisses deeply and before John can slide his hand under the waistband of Sherlock’s pants, the stupid door opens.

 

“Holy—Fucking hell!” Greg shouts at the same time little Cedric yells, “Wrestlin’!”

 

“Greg!” John yelps, clambering off Sherlock as quickly as possible, managing to fall off the bed in haste. Sherlock doesn’t move. He merely sits up and glares at Greg. John admires Sherlock’s ability to be unfazed by the strangest things. He certainly can’t just sit there and glare at his brother-in-law while half-naked and sporting half an erection. It’s uncalled for.

 

“Sorry, Greg,” John mumbles as he retrieves both their shirts. “We, er, got carried away.”

 

“It’s alright. I mean, you’re not naked _naked_ ,” Greg mumbles back. He’s shielding Cedric’s eyes with his left hand and looking anywhere but at them.

 

“Oh please, Greg,” Sherlock snorts. “I saw you and Mycroft together, remember? Walked in and you were naked. Still, I thank the higher beings that my brother was already clothed. Otherwise, I would have burned my eyes out. The least you can do for scarring me for life is to not act like such a prude.”

 

John stares at Greg, aghast. “He walked in on you two? How old were you—”

 

“Eleven.”

 

John shudders.

 

“Oh, shut up both of you,” Greg snaps, cheeks flushed. “Get your clothes on and Sherlock, try to make yourself presentable. Mycroft’s nearly here and he wants a word with you.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes but complies as soon as Greg leaves the room. His shirt is horribly wrinkled, his hair is a mess, and his lips are kiss-swollen. Even Grandpa Nicolas can see what they’ve been up to.

 

“Three days, John,” Sherlock reminds him and with a parting kiss, walks out of the room. John tries not to look, but Sherlock’s wearing those jeans and, well, he really is quite fit.

 

“Fuck.” Three days, John thinks. Three bloody days.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next chapter are mostly just about sex. So sex. Before I drop the angst bomb again. Oh yeah to those still confused these are the differences between a temp. bond to a permanent one.
> 
> 1) no empathy link in a pre-bond. there are a few exceptions. john and sherlock for example because soul mate <3  
> 2) will be broken when another Alpha claims an Omega in heat unlike in a permanent one where an Alpha won't even try to claim someone else's mate  
> 3) temp bond, like the real one, puts a 'not available' sign around the pair's necks. only in a temp bond it's less obvious and if you're physically attractive and you smell awesome (poor Sherlock) other Alphas will still try to claim you. Most of them won't go beyond flirting because of the 'not your division' scent but there are Neanderthals even in the twenty-first century.  
> 4) easily dissolved by being claimed by another, by drinking a certain pill, and when mates spend far too long away from each other. so people who do this bond and can't always be together do another blood exchange just like what sherlock and john did when they were kids. because sherlock and john are practically attached to each other, a yearly blood exchange is not needed  
> 5) a permanent bond is formed when the pair spend a heat together. a pre-bond is usually turned into a permanent one when the Omega reaches eighteen. However, both John and Sherlock are forbidden to do it because they're both still studying. Mycroft and Greg also followed this but a certain Luke Rochwell planned things ahead for them.  
> 6) permanent bonds are harder to break but they can be dissolved. again, certain doctors specialize in that.  
> 7) bonding, even permanently bonding, does not guarantee love. It's merely chemical, which is why there are still people who cheat and which is why Sherlock's father didn't have much trouble leaving them. bastard.  
> 8) it's not impossible to bond an Alpha to a Beta or to bond an Omega to a Beta but it's much harder to do it and there may be complications so Betas settle for marriage. Alpha/Omega couples bond and have the option to marry. Marriage is just for the legal documents and stuff. less modern a/o couples partake in marriage but traditionalists, like Sherlock's grandparents, believe in marriage.


	15. That Three-Letter Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The art of seduction by one Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex scene here but it's not very graphic and it ends in fluff anyway because the angst bomb is waiting.

“So it’s not impossible for you to become even fatter in less than sixty-two hours,” Sherlock says in way of greeting, “You’re the bane of every dietician in England, Mycroft.”

 

“I’m glad to see you as well, Sherlock.” His eyes don’t miss the messy collar of Sherlock’s shirt and the faint red mark on his throat, nor can he ignore the scent of John on him, a little stronger than it should be. Mycroft has mixed feelings about it. On one hand, he doesn’t approve of his little brother engaging in such activities, and on the other, Sherlock looks almost happy. Not smiling, but not scowling, either. “You certainly look like you’re enjoying yourself. It seems John was quiet ecstatic when he found out you two were sharing a room.”

 

Sherlock glares at him dangerously. “Piss off,” he snarls. Mycroft smiles inwardly at Sherlock’s display of weakness. He makes a mental note to have his men watch John Watson as well for his own protection. He can’t have Sherlock losing him now, can he?

 

“I take it our dear grandparents didn’t approve of him,” Mycroft continues, pretending not to have heard Sherlock’s threat. “Don’t fret, Sherlock. You know how they are.”

 

Sherlock sniffs but says nothing. He sits with his legs drawn to his chest, one arm wrapped around his knees. Cautious is the word that comes to Mycroft’s head. Sherlock’s looking at him with a small frown on his face. “What do you want?” he asks bitingly. “If you’re not going to tell me anything about _him_ , then may I suggest you let me go this instance? I was busy.”

 

“Oh, yes, quite. He’s such a gentleman, isn’t he?” Mycroft says sarcastically before he can stop himself. Sherlock’s trembling and it’s not because he’s afraid, but because he’s fighting the urge to slam a fist in Mycroft’s face. The Sherlock looking at him now isn’t the Sherlock he knew several years ago, the one who often had uncontrollable rages and black moods and was desperate to be something more, to find something better, rather. It’s sweet, in a way, and frightening as well. Mycroft has never been highly possessive of Greg but he has Sherlock to protect as well and he has his children. With Sherlock, sociopathic as he is, he only has to look out for John.

 

Mycroft sighs and the tension seems to dissipate. “I didn’t call you here to fight with you,” Mycroft tells him. Sherlock is still looking at him suspiciously but there’s no anger there anymore, only coldness. “It’s about Sherrinford.”

 

It’s almost funny, the way Sherlock’s mask of indifference slips and reveals the shock on his face. His arm loosens around his knees and he shifts so he’s sitting properly. “What?” he demands.

 

“You already know that he’s influential, he’s American, and that he works for the government. Believe me when I say I don’t know much about him either,” Mycroft says quickly before he can raise Sherlock’s hopes. “He’s intelligent and…difficult. Childish, actually.” Mycroft smiles a little and Sherlock glares at him, impatient. “He has the Holmes’ penchant for manipulating other’s emotions and it seems he likes playing the part of the mysterious older brother.

 

“I was in Latvia two weeks ago and I found him again when I was in the airport. That would be the second time I’ve seen him personally. The first time was when I was in America when you were sixteen. He shocked me, then, and he surprised me when I saw him next. The first time I saw him was brief. He talked about Father for a bit and then he asked about you.”

 

Sherlock stares at him, waiting. “And?”

 

“He asked how old you were and I said you were sixteen and doing well. He then said he’d rather meet you when you were older. It’s a habit of his to surprise people, I suppose. He claims he’s looking out for us and that we can use him as a last resort if we ever need him.

 

“Like our first meeting, our meeting in Latvia was also quick. He merely said hello then he gave me something which he said he’d like to pass on to you.”

 

The black box is heavy in Mycroft’s hands and even when he’s set it down on the table, it still seems to be sinking. If it were possible the whole thing would pass through the table, drop through the floor, and be swallowed up by the ground, never to been again. Sherlock unfolds himself from the chair and stands up. He regards the box carefully. Mycroft knows what’s inside, of course. He’d made them check, made his people sure it’s nothing dangerous. It isn’t in the technical sense, but it can still hurt Sherlock in a way.

 

Sherlock takes the lid off and looks at what’s inside. He has his back to Mycroft but he can read the tension in the set of his shoulders. He waits for a moment but soon enough, surprisingly, Sherlock relaxes. When he turns around, his expression is perfectly blank.

“Why?”

 

“It’s a family heirloom. Sherrinford made it clear. He’s not exactly ‘all family’.”

 

Sherlock frowns and says nothing. He cradles the skull almost lovingly. It’s ironic that Sherlock’s so obsessed with it when it once belonged to a man he could barely stand. But the skull is a big of part of Sherlock’s childhood, and Mycroft’s as well, actually. The skull had been something of a companion when Father had locked them in his study. Mycroft for the rare times he’d gotten into trouble and Sherlock for the many, countless times he’d done something disastrous.

 

“What else?” Sherlock asks. “There must have been something more to it.”

 

“That was all.” It’s only half a lie. Mycroft doesn’t tell Sherlock about the number Sherrinford gave him, nor does he tell Sherlock that the real reason why Sherrinford’s looking out for them is because of Father. Sherlock will find it hard to believe. Father never loved them, not really, but he’s a responsible man who always manages to find a solution to things. Mycroft doesn’t tell Sherlock that he told Sherrinford to stop bothering them, either. There is no solution to them.

 

After all, there’s nothing wrong with either of them.     

* * *

 

In appearance, there is nothing different about the skull in his hands to the skull in his memory. Sherlock carries it back to his room where he observes it carefully. Its smell has changed, though. Someone has washed it.

 

When Sherlock presses his nose against the hollow that had _once_ contained a nose, he smells detergent and Freon and the faint, soggy scent of slightly wet cardboard. All he can tell about it is that it was kept well, at least, until it was placed in the carrier. Sherlock weighs it in his hand before he brings it to his mouth and drags his tongue over the smooth cranium. It tastes, unpleasantly, of soap.

 

Reluctantly, he hides the skull under the bed, away from John and the rest of the world. Knowing about the existence of the skull isn’t just his. Mycroft knows as well but _Sherrinford_ has given it to him. His brother, his strange, older half-brother. Sherlock still cannot settle on a word that can describe how he feels about him. He wants to meet him, that’s true. But after that? The after is always difficult.

 

He must have sat there for a while because when he comes to, the sunlight filtering through the window has changed angle and there is a light pressure on his knees. “Hey,” John greets, squeezing his left knee once. He’s kneeling in front of Sherlock, his weight resting on Sherlock’s feet. “Alright?”

 

Sherlock blinks at him once, twice, and waits until his thoughts focus on present time. “I’m fine,” he snaps and he becomes all too aware of the frown that appears on John’s face just as he moves away. Sherlock curls his toes in his shoes and realize how numb they are. “I was thinking.”

 

“For three hours?”

 

 Sherlock is aware that this is not normal, even for him. At least, not normal for him as he’s currently not conducting an experiment and there’s no crime scene anywhere. He tries kissing John because kissing John is not only very nice, it’s a way of distracting the both of them. But John doesn’t seem to be buying it as he pulls away suddenly and gives Sherlock a sceptical look.

 

He’s lucky this time. John doesn’t push it. Instead, he stands up and ruffles Sherlock’s hair fondly. His palm lingers behind Sherlock’s ear, far too long to be considered just a friendly gesture. Sherlock likes it a lot, likes how subtle it is. “Mehdi says we should have tea with your grandparents,” John tells him. His thumb brushes the shell of Sherlock’s ear before he drops his hand. “They’re waiting for us in the sitting room.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Must we?”

 

“They’re not _my_ grandparents,” John points out. “Besides, you don’t exactly have anything to do here. You’ll die of boredom.”

 

“Maybe.” Sherlock studies him. John’s hair has grown shaggy over the months and it’s now close to covering his eyebrows. He needs a haircut. “Or…”

 

“Or what?”

 

“We could continue what we were doing before Greg so rudely interrupted.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Next time,” Greg says a little shakily, “you’re going to teach me French because I can’t stand your fucking grandmother anymore and next time, I’ll be able to swear at her fluently and possibly give her a heart attack.”

 

“Are you certain that she was insulting you?” Mycroft asks and Greg looks at him like he’s an idiot, a look that he so rarely gives Mycroft. Mycroft’s face remains perfectly blank even with Beatrice squirming in his lap and pulling at the lapels of his coat.

 

“You were there, you pillock, and I think I know when someone’s saying something about me _and my kids_.” Greg pauses. “Also, your mother pulled me aside and said sorry a lot so there must have been something unpleasant about what she said.”

 

“Grand-mère is old. You must excuse her eccentricities.”

 

Greg rolls his eyes. “And?”

 

Mycroft’s face remains expressionless until Beatrice, who Greg realizes is in desperate need for a nap, whines and manages to kick him in the gut. “ _Oof_.” Mycroft wheezes, doubling over and allowing Beatrice to slide off his lap in the process. Greg tries to catch her but she dodges him and runs between his legs. Worry about them later, he thinks, as she joins Cedric in the sparse garden. He looks at Mycroft again, waiting, and Mycroft’s resolve weakens. “They have a vineyard which goes to our mother in the time of her death.” Mycroft shrugs, trying to look casual, but Greg can clearly read the discomfort in his face. “It’s a good investment.”

 

“I’d be disgusted,” Greg says as he sinks further down the chair, “but that would mean regretting drinking all that wine last Christmas. I think I see your point.”

 

“You do?”

 

Greg thinks about it for a while. “No. I got really sick.”

 

Mycroft looks like he wants to say something more, an explanation probably, but the backdoor opens and John and Sherlock tumble in, looking a lot like they just did a lot of tumbling. With each other.

 

“You missed tea,” Mycroft points out. “But there’s a bit of food here. You’re probably hungry.”

 

Sherlock glares at him. He looks rather threatening even though his shirt is horribly, horribly wrinkled and his hair looks like something crawled inside and had a seizure. John looks the same only it seems he can’t muster a glare yet. There’s a bit of a shocked expression on his face that turns into a deeply frightened one when his eyes meet Mycroft’s. “Er,” he says before he drops in a chair beside Greg, as far away from Mycroft as possible.

 

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock replies. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Something about the gesture pains Mycroft and when Greg looks, really looks at Sherlock, he sees, quite clearly, what they’d done. Or rather what Sherlock had done.

 

“Ugh,” Greg says before he can stop himself. Sherlock rolls his eyes at him.

 

 “Prude,” he mutters. “Come along, John.”

 

“But I wanted to eat—”

 

“You’ve had enough,” Sherlock snaps and before John can complain, he quickly grabs hold of him and tugs him away.

 

“So you’re alright with that now?” Greg asks once they’re gone. “You know, Sherlock doings things like that?”

 

“Of course not. But it’s not as if I can stop it from happening.”

* * *

 

John has been to enough family reunions to know that it’s best not to go in hiding, but to sit still, have them drift to you, and nod and smile and pretend to be interested in whatever it is the speaker finds so amusing. John has had years of training. He knows how to politely avoid Aunt Lisbeth’s hugs, and with that, her quivering bosom and hair-burning body odour. He knows quite well that one should never put his cousin Isis beside his great uncle Hamish during dinner if the family wants to avoid an argument about haggis. And while this family is not his own, John knows how to survive.

 

He’s good at socializing, has to be in order to keep people’s attention away from Sherlock. But Sherlock’s not here. His relatives are. There’s a lot of them, and not all of them are French, either. It’s like John has stepped foot in Google Translator. Only the English language has died somewhere and John is left to fend off curious stares with blank smiles and the occasional ‘da’, which is the only Russian word he knows.

 

To John’s relief, Mehdi approaches him sometime after a middle-aged woman accosts him in a language John thinks must be German. “Feeling lost, already?” he asks, grinning. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes but John thinks that’s normal and not because of him. “Don’t worry. Most of them will leave after the party.”

 

“They arrived early.”

 

“They’re curious bastards. Wanted to see you and Mycroft’s kids. Most of them weren’t present in your pre-bonding ceremony. I don’t think they feel too comfortable with Sherlock’s family.”

 

“I don’t think anyone does.”

 

“You should go up and hide,” Mehdi advises him. “It’s not dinner time yet. I’d use all of my free time running away from these people if I were you.”

 

“And you?”

`

Mehdi grimaces. “See that guy over there?” he says, pointing at a man standing twenty feet away. He’s a tall, slightly muscular bloke in his early twenties with the blondest hair John has ever seen. A dumpy woman holding a small dog is talking to him enthusiastically. “That’s my husband, Paul.” Mehdi’s voice is blank, devoid of emotion. It almost makes John wince. “Can’t run away, now can I?”

 

“Um, no?”

 

Mehdi shrugs. “You should really go up. We’ll call you once dinner’s served.”

 

It’s quiet upstairs. Not a surprise as nearly everyone’s downstairs, getting ready. John’s glad not to have run into either of Sherlock’s grandparents. He’s fairly sure ‘salaud’ isn’t a good word and Grandpa Nicolas still seems to think he’s Jean Gerbault. He wasn’t so lucky with Mycroft’s judging eyes or Greg’s knowing smirk. His body, the traitorous thing, is still confused and doesn’t know whether to be embarrassed or aroused by the memory of Sherlock gracefully (the posh twat) falling to his knees in front of him.

 

Sherlock’s in the bathroom when John bounds in. He hears the shower running and over that, the sound of Sherlock talking to himself. Other people sing, Sherlock recites the theory of relativity. It’s perfectly normal. Endearing, even.

 

Well, to John, anyway.

 

“Damn,” John curses when he accidentally knocks a weird, round Buddha sculpture to the floor. There are a lot of them on the side table (Sherlock mentioned something about his grandfather being a religious freak) and they stare at John accusingly. Their companion has rolled under the bed, far enough that John has to drop on his stomach to retrieve it. His hands brush against something cold, far too cold to be the tiny Buddha.

 

“John? You’re not dressed.”

 

“What do you mean I’m not dressed? I’m—”

 

This isn’t the first time John has seen Sherlock in a suit. He performed in orchestras when he was a kid and of course, his family can never have too many formal events. But there is something about this suit that’s different. Maybe it’s because he’s wearing a red shirt inside, or maybe it’s because said red shirt is open at the top, revealing far too much collarbone to be considered anything but seductive. Sherlock, John has decided long ago, has very sexy bones. As a med student he knows this is impossible but there is something about Sherlock in a suit that just screams sex so his bones are included.

 

“Um,” John says and he must look stupid lying on the floor with one hand still fumbling blindly beneath the bed because Sherlock’s giving him an odd look.

 

“Your pupils are dilated,” Sherlock points out. “I apologize John, but I’d rather not get on my knees while I’m wearing this. The tailor did a splendid job.”

 

John blushes as he sits up, tiny Buddha be damned. “I’m not asking for a—Why do I have to get dressed?”

 

“It’s a formal event.” Sherlock cocks his head to one side. “You didn’t bring a suit, did you?”

 

“No.”

 

“John,” Sherlock says. He sighs dramatically. “You never learn.”

 

John would be ashamed or angry or annoyed but the thing is he _has_ learned. He still forgets about formal events and what fork he should use or what to say to such and such but he’s learned a lot about Sherlock. That’s the important bit, isn’t it? John tells him so as he stands up and Sherlock looks at him, stunned. Later, John will remember that Sherlock Holmes has never blushed in front of him, or if he did, then John never noticed it.

 

“I’ll change into something decent, alright?” he says. Sherlock looks at him then nods, his face still a little red. John’s not sure how he never noticed it before. Pale people blush rather obviously and Sherlock’s paper-white.

 

“Fine,” Sherlock mutters.

* * *

 

“I still hate snails,” John says to Greg. They’re seated next to each other with Sherlock across John and Mycroft across Greg. It’s a bad arrangement as neither brother want to acknowledge each other, a difficult feat as the table is so crowded they’re practically squished together. John’s eyes keep snaking to Sherlock who, dear God, has taken to sucking the meat out of the shells in a way that should be indecent. _Is indecent_. Sherlock catches him staring and he smirks dangerously.

 

Fuck it. He _loves_ snails.

 

“I’d much rather eat the snails than the steak au poivre Want to trade?”

 

“Can’t. Grandparents are looking.”

 

“Fuck them.” Greg stabs the meat with his fork. It spurts out something that looks horribly like blood which stains the white table cloth. He sighs and sits back, defeated by a slice of meat. “I hate this.”

 

John tears his eyes away from Sherlock. “The wine is good. Just get drunk.”

 

“Can’t. Have to take care of the kids.” Greg gives Mycroft a look which John interprets as ‘they’re your kids, too, and I need a fucking break’. John wonders if he’ll ever give Sherlock a look like that. Then he stops himself before he can think any further about the future and just focuses on Sherlock and his wonderful snail-eating abilities.

 

John picks up his own wine glass but just as he’s about to take a sip, Sherlock kicks his shin. John yelps and jumps, spilling the wine all over the front of his shirt. “Idiot,” Sherlock’s grandmother says in what she must think is a quiet voice. John shoots her a glare then shoots one at Sherlock as well.

 

“You should get changed,” Sherlock drawls.

 

“No,” John says. He leans in close, close enough that Mycroft raises his eyebrow. “We’re talking. Now.”

* * *

 

They manage to escape without drawing too much attention to themselves. John goes first, excusing himself by explaining that he needs to change. He has no idea what Sherlock said or if Sherlock said anything at all but ten minutes later, Sherlock’s in the backyard, waiting.

 

“This,” John says, pointing at the red stain on his shirt, “is a cheap ploy to get me to have sex with you. It’s horribly cliché.”

 

Sherlock scowls at that. “It worked.”

 

“It’s overdone.” There’s a broken, funny-looking gargoyle-shaped fountain there, perfect for sitting on. John takes a seat between the clawed feet and pats the empty space, inviting Sherlock to sit next to him. “Why do you want to have sex with me so badly?” John asks once Sherlock’s pressed against his side.

 

Sherlock looks at him disbelievingly. “You’re my bond mate,” he says and John notes how Sherlock never uses the word ‘boyfriend’. It _is_ a juvenile term and they’re beyond that anyway. “Should you even ask that?”

 

“Yes, but you’ve never had anyone, right?”

 

Sherlock nods, eyes narrowed suspiciously. John realizes that the question implies John’s experience with others. Sorry, he thinks, I was stupid. “Well,” he begins, choosing his words carefully, “most people…if they’ve never had sex, they tend to go slow. Explore. You know what I mean. Like they’re conducting experiments. They see what the other likes, what they don’t like, things like that. They’re learning about each other. Before they go all the way. We’ve only done it twice.”

 

“But I already know you.” Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “Are you implying that you don’t want to have sex with me because I’m horrible at giving blowjobs?”

 

“No, no. You were good…too good.”

 

Sherlock looks smug. “I’m a fast learner.”

 

“I’m still trying to decide if that’s a good thing or not.” Before Sherlock can interpret it as an insult, John touches his nape, a protective gesture. “I’m rather slow,” he admits. He scratches lightly and Sherlock makes a satisfied sound, leaning further into his touch. “Give me another reason.”

 

“That’s all—”

 

“Sherlock, I know you. There has to be another reason.”

 

“Experimenting on your pulse rate. Also a goal. Told myself I’d have sex with you before the end of the month.”

 

“Jesus, Sherlock, your life doesn’t run in bullet forms. You don’t plan everything ahead. That’s not how things work.” John sighs. “I should be disturbed that you’re experimenting on me again.”

 

“I’m not normal. Normal is boring.”

 

“I don’t want you to be boring, alright? _Ever_.” Sherlock stares at him before he leans in and kisses him. The statement, John realizes, is more romantic than any ‘I love you’s’. He also realizes that he’s never said it and neither has Sherlock. They have made an unspoken agreement not to say it and John has only grasped the idea that they made such an agreement. “I don’t think you could be normal anyway,” John adds when Sherlock releases his mouth.

 

“Shut up,” Sherlock says and John isn’t able to come up with a comeback because Sherlock’s just kissing him and kissing him. Anyone can walk in on them, he thinks. Sherlock’s holding him tightly and it must be the body heat and Sherlock’s tongue because John finds, to his horror, that his traitorous body is acting up again.

 

“Fuck,” John curses, pushing Sherlock gently away.

 

Sherlock taps his shoulder. When he looks up he sees Sherlock grinning at him. “You get the idea,” he says before he dives right back in.

* * *

 

Greg downs his drink in one go and looks to his right. The chair is empty as well as the one across it. “Worried yet?” he asks Mycroft.

 

“I’m doing my best to ignore it.” Mycroft replies.

* * *

 

Sherlock pulls his shirt off quickly and tosses it somewhere. Dimly, John hears a splash but he doesn’t have time to think about it. Sherlock’s kissing him again, his tongue doing absolutely wicked things in John’s mouth. “I think,” John pants as Sherlock drags him behind a neatly trimmed hedge, “I think you threw my shirt in the fountain.”

 

“Don’t care,” Sherlock growls, hands scrambling to pull off John’s belt. He slips his left hand inside John’s trousers, palming his erection. John groans and quickly pins Sherlock to the ground.

 

“You are aware that you told me you’d rather not mess up your suit? Or that we should do this inside? Preferably where there’s a bed?”

 

“And I’m quite positive you’re aware that just a moment ago, you were lecturing me about taking things slow. I need you to fuck me.”

 

 John stares at him, open-mouthed. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

 

“La petit mort,” Sherlock whispers huskily in his ear. His hands explore John’s chest, his palms grazing over John’s nipples. It makes John buck against him and Sherlock lets out a strangled gasp.

 

“Baise-moi, Jean,” Sherlock says, smirking at him.

 

“French me again, and this will be over real quick.”

 

Sherlock just releases another throaty moan as he pulls him in to press their mouths together hotly. John breaks the kiss to drag his tongue over his sternum. He smells so good and tastes even better. John sniffs him deeply, loving the dark honey scent of him, mingled with John’s own. He lays open-mouthed kisses all over his chest until his lips close over a nipple.

 

“Oh God! Fuck!”

 

Sherlock’s hands have latched on to the back of his head, his fingernails scratching white lines on John’s scalp. He’s moaning now, writhing underneath John, and John hasn’t even done anything. It’s quite flattering, really.

 

And also slightly painful because Sherlock’s trembling and it takes a few minutes and their combined effort to slide his trousers off him. “Never had public sex before,” John says, “but I’m guessing you’re not supposed to wear trousers this tight.”

 

“You like my arse in them,” Sherlock points out as he locks his legs around John’s body.

 

John laughs then pries Sherlock’s left leg off his waist to rest it on his shoulder.

“How about out of them?” he teases. He finds the lube in Sherlock’s pockets along with about four condoms. Cherry, grape, orange, and even bloody kiwi. Jesus. Sherlock, it seems, isn’t out of his mind yet because he can still roll his eyes and mutter ‘obviously’ under his breath.

 

Said obviously turns into a muffled scream when John presses one finger into him.

 

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck.”

 

“Sherlock, shut up.”

 

“Can’t. Fuck.”

 

“No, seriously, shut up.”

 

Sherlock looks at him indignantly when John moves up and covers his mouth with his free hand. The other one is still in happy land. Move it and Sherlock whines. John keeps still and prays to the higher beings that the creaking sound he heard wasn’t the backdoor opening.

 

The gods are not with him, it seems. Sherlock’s eyes widen when they both hear two women talking. “Mummy,” Sherlock says against his hand, his voice muffled. John gives him another look to keep him quiet.

 

“I’m just taking Fifi out for a little tinkle, Violet,” the woman with Sherlock’s mother says. “You don’t have to look after me.”

 

“Celia, you’re drunk.”

 

“Not enough to ignore my Fifi, darling. I’m _fiiiine_.”

 

And then John hears it, the sound of a small, annoying toy dog yapping. Sherlock’s shaking underneath him, laughing silently. John can’t believe it. He’s afraid that they might be discovered. He imagines the expression on the two women’s faces if they see him and Sherlock together. _Mrs Holmes, I know what it looks like but I love your son with all my heart and I’m determined to love him until the very day I die and also give him a lot of children and make you happy by giving him said children. This is a perfectly natural way of showing him how much I love him_. John doesn’t think that would make any mother happy, at least, not when he’s on top of her baby boy and very much naked. He prays they won’t find his shirt swimming in scummy fountain water. Mrs Holmes might not have the Holmesian intellect but he’s sure she can put two and two together.

 

John almost sighs in relief when he hears the trickle of water far away, the one that says Fifi has finally made her tinkle. They both freeze, though, when Fifi, the damn poodle, suddenly makes her appearance beside them. Sherlock’s shaking even more, hysterical with laughter, and John still has one finger in him. Fifi stares at them with her big dumb eyes before she turns her attention to John’s jeans and begins to treat it like a chew toy.

 

“No, bad Fifi, get out of here,” John hisses, doing his best to drive the dog away with one hand. Damn this. He has been cockblocked by Greg. He will not be cockblocked by a stupid dog with rhinestones on its collar.

 

Just as John’s thinking that things will get bad, real quickly, Fifi’s owner calls her. The dog is fortunately well-trained. It drops John’s jeans and darts out of the hedge. “Fifi, bad girl,” the woman scolds. Their voices fade and soon enough the back door closes again.

 

John waits for a moment before he takes his hand off Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock has calmed, somewhat, but he’s still smiling and laughing every now and then. “I had no idea you were into beastiality, John,” he cracks.

 

“Hey, I’m about to have sex with you, aren’t I?” He crooks the finger inside him a little, making Sherlock moan once more.

 

“Didn’t forget. Use the orange one.”

* * *

 

Mehdi looks at the empty chairs and at his cousin Mycroft’s face. “Jean Gerbault?” Grand-père asks innocently. His tone is innocent but Mehdi thinks he has a lot in store for John as there is a knife in his hand.

 

“Jean Gerbault’s gone, Grand-père,” he says as he pries his grandfather’s fingers off the handle. Mycroft catches his eye. He doesn’t look happy.

 

“Where’s that cousin of yours?” Paul asks as he tears through another chicken leg. “The one with the weird hair?”

 

“Probably asleep,” Mehdi lies.

* * *

 

It’s stupid and dirty (both in a good way and a bad one). He never understood public sex before but John does now. There’s nothing romantic about it. It’s just two bodies rutting against each other in the most animalistic way possible. Fuck logic. It’s all about getting off.

 

Sherlock’s moaning in his mouth. Loud, way too loud. And when he thrusts right there, Sherlock practically screams.

 

“Oh god, shut up,” John groans. He’s not going to last long, not when Sherlock’s moaning and writhing in his arms. John can’t even look at him even though he really wants to. But seeing Sherlock’s face during sex isn’t something you should do if you want to last.

 

His pace is slower than either of them like and Sherlock is digging his fingers into his hips, hissing at him to go faster. John doesn’t. Most of his thoughts are just about fucking Sherlock but there’s a part of him that reminds John that Sherlock’s never done this before and a faster pace might hurt him. John kisses any part of him that he can reach to pacify him.

 

Think of unsexy things. Mycroft glaring at you because you’re fucking his brother. Works, sort of. That pig you had to dissect. Gross but not enough.

 

“Ah, John!”

 

Fuck. Potatoes. Potatoes aren’t sexy. They’re brown and dumpy and they have black spots. Also, they taste like earth if you don’t cook them right. John tasted earth once when a kid bullied him when he was eight.

 

Sherlock moans again.

 

Crabs. Crabs are weird, aren’t they? They move weird and they’re always fighting. Like karate masters or something. Harry got pinched by one once. Good day, that was.

 

“John,” Sherlock says again, this time urgently. John doesn’t want to look but Sherlock grabs his ears and brings his face up. “John,” he says again simply, lovingly, and John comes undone.

* * *

 

After, Sherlock presses his tongue against John’s jugular. He’s concentrating and when he pulls away, one minute later, he tells John that it’s part of his experiment. “You smell fantastic,” Sherlock adds as he sniffs John’s wrists. He has leaves in his hair and his cheek is smeared with dirt. John rubs it away with his thumb, earning him an annoyed look.

 

“This is a compliment, then?”

 

“An observation.” Sherlock yawns and pushes his hand away. “A fact.”

 

“Thank you.” John blinks at him. He feels dopey and he can’t help but smile stupidly as he looks at Sherlock’s face. “You’re really hot.”

 

Sherlock raises one brow at him, but he’s smiling as well. “I won the genetic lottery. I did nothing but be born.”

 

“Still hot.”

 

“Such charming words, John.” He sits up and puts his clothes back on. The two buttons at the top are missing but Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice. He stands up and comes back later with a cigarette in his mouth and John’s soaked shirt. Sherlock drops it carelessly and it lands with a splat on top of John’s chest.

 

John wrinkles his nose as he wrings the shirt. “Gross,” he complains. Still he puts it on once most of the water is gone. It’s better to go inside wearing a wet shirt than to go inside half-naked. He’d scare the masses, especially the high-strung old ladies.

 

“I think I get it now,” John says. Sherlock looks at him, the smoke billowing his face like a scarf. John makes a disgruntled sound when the smoke reaches him. “I wish you’d stop that. Anyway, I think I get what Bill says about sex. Sometimes it just happens.”

 

Sherlock nods. “Next time I’d like it to be slower. I want to catalogue my observations on you. Also, I’d like to try it in a bedroom. Your reaction might be different in a more private setting.”

 

“This is the part where we set out rules, then?” John braces himself, imaging the worst. “What else?”

 

“I’d like to conduct an experiment on those condoms of yours. I’m curious about whether or not the elasticity is affected by the flavour. The orange one worked well but the cherry one. Not so good.”

 

John winces. “Those weren’t my idea.”

 

“I think they’re brilliant.”

 

“You can thank my mother for them. What else?”

 

Sherlock cocks his head to one side, deep in thought. Then finally, “Can I be on top of you next time? I’d be able to control the pace and I think that position will be beneficial for both of us.”

 

John blinks then blushes brightly when he gets what Sherlock is asking. “You want…er, alright…”

 

“Your pupils are dilated again. You like the idea.”

 

John shrugs, not denying it. “Frankly, Sherlock, I just really like the idea of sleeping with you.”

 

Sherlock grins at him. John stares back. He looks so good with his hair wild and messy and his cheeks still a little flushed. John wants to kiss him but they’ve already done a lot of that and he doesn’t think Sherlock will appreciate a hug, not when they’re both sticky and smelling of dirt. There’s still a smudge of dirt high on Sherlock’s cheekbone. It should be ridiculous but all John can think about is how much he loves him and how he’s never said it.

 

“I lo—”

 

The words die in his mouth when he sees the stunned expression on Sherlock’s face, followed by an almost upset one. “Don’t,” he says. He drops the cigarette to the ground and crushes it with the toe of his shoe.

 

“Explain.”

 

“We just had sex. It’s just the release of endorphins making you say that.”

 

“But it’s true—”

 

“Barthes,” Sherlock begins and John stops himself before he can interrupt, “’Once the first avowal has been made ‘I love you’ has no meaning what ever’. A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments. One of Mummy’s more respectable reads.” Sherlock’s not looking at him. “I never want you to say that to me.”

 

You’re afraid, John thinks. I’m not lying. I love you and it scares me, too, but _I love you_. I love you so much I can’t even think straight.

 

John finds himself nodding instead. “It’s fine,” he says and Sherlock relaxes.

 

They sneak back in the house, neither of them bothering to put any distance between them. The guests are all in the dining room anyway and the only person who sees them is Mehdi. He smiles at Sherlock knowingly. “We fucked,” Sherlock says simply before he climbs up the stairs, leaving John to fend off Mehdi.

 

“I won’t tell,” the younger man promises. He smiles at John. “So…”

 

“No,” John mutters as he moves away. “Definitely not talking about it.”

* * *

 

The next days are incredibly awkward. Mycroft has managed the art of ignoring him and glaring at him murderously when he thinks John’s not looking. Greg has patted his shoulder as a form of congratulations, then, to make things a little more hilarious, told John that he never thought he’d give him a thumbs up for sleeping with his brother-in-law. If Sherlock’s mother has heard about it, she doesn’t acknowledge it. But then Sherlock and his mother interact as little as possible.

 

Sherlock’s leaning away from him, head leaning against the window, hands clasped on his knees. He’s lost in thought again. John reaches out to tuck a curl behind his ear but the gesture prompts no response.

 

“Dead again?” Greg asks. Mycroft is asleep beside him, as dead to the world as Sherlock is. It’s weird to see Mycroft like that. John’s half-tempted to take a photograph but that might wake him up and John doesn’t really want to be glared at again.

 

“You glad to be leaving France?” John asks.

 

“Hell yes.” He grins at John. “You’ll be shocked when you see how much wine we took.”

 

“Alcoholic.”

 

John leans back and closes his eyes, ready to drift off to sleep when he feels a cold finger slide up his wrist. John opens his eyes and turns to look at Sherlock. He’s still looking out the window but his fingers are now interlaced with John’s. “This is fine?” Sherlock asks.

 

John grins. He doesn't expect Sherlock to hold his hand in public nor does he expect him to be more affectionate. He doesn't expect him to tell him he loves him, either. But this? This is alright.

 

John brushes his thumb over Sherlock’s pulse point. “More than.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it was terribly out of character for Sherlock to read Roland Barthes. But then I remembered that Sherlock reads everything. So fluff and fluff and a bit of sex and another Sherrinford hint. Also: SUGGEST A SITUATION YOU'D LIKE THESE TWO TO GET INTO. The next chapter is angsty as hell but I'm thinking of a transition chapter before that. So if you guys want, suggest.


	16. Cheers to the Past, Present, and Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: sex, a creepy three-year-old, a walrus/man who swears a lot, and a lot of cheesy crap.
> 
> Because this is the turning point, you have a very long chapter ahead of you. Thanks for your suggestions, but since some of the things you suggested will appear in future chapters, I went ahead and did my own thing (there is, however, mystrade here)(also sex which you requested. a lot). Also, the reason why this took so long to write is because I was challenged to read the infamous "My Immortal". I have no words for it.

 

It’s not that Greg minds being woken up at four in the morning. He’s used to having little to no sleep. Besides, he likes it when it’s cold and quiet, when the kids are asleep and the only sound in the bedroom is that of Mycroft’s breathing. Sometimes, he’s woken up by the ringing of his mobile—an emergency call from the station, usually.

 

Sometimes, it’s a call from Sherlock, asking him to bail him out. Those calls are rare, thankfully. Greg dislikes coming to the station and sorting through the paperwork needed to get Sherlock out of whatever idiocy he’s gotten himself into. And he absolutely hates the times when John comes and the two have a screaming match right there. Not to mention how, when he gets home, Mycroft also complains about Sherlock’s behaviour. He remembers the last time, the worst one. An offense for trespassing, Greg remembers. He had a week-old headache after that little episode.

 

Often though, it’s one or both of the twins, climbing up the bed and demanding their attention. It’s either they have nightmares or are hungry. Greg’s okay with taking care of them for a while until they drift back to sleep.

 

He doesn’t mind being woken up when there is a problem at hand. There is, however, something horribly wrong with today’s situation.

 

“Daddy, I want to peel your skin off.”

 

Greg nearly falls off the bed in fright. It’s Cedric today, and thank the gods, it’s just him. He’s seated at the foot of the bed, staring at Greg intently with his wide eyes. He looks a lot like Mycroft, only with redder hair and Greg’s eyes. In his blue Batman jammies, he looks innocent, like every other three-year-old should be. Greg has yet to wonder why his son is talking like someone from a creepy, psychological horror movie.

 

“Um, sorry, what?” Maybe he’s heard it wrong. He had a bad dream which Cedric ruined upon waking him up. Greg tries to cling onto it but it’s impossible. Maybe the words came from his nightmare.

 

“I said I want to peel your skin off.” Or not. This is worse.

 

Greg loves his children, but there are times when he’s at a loss. Like this, for instance. He’s an only child, and while being bonded to Mycroft early on helped expose him to other children his age and younger, he still has very little idea on what to do or say when his kids blurt things out like this. This is more of Mycroft’s area, actually. Years of dealing with Sherlock’s curiosity has made him numb. The twins can say the weirdest things and he won’t even look cowed. Greg isn’t so lucky. They say that working for the police makes you immune to all kinds of strange things, but actually it just makes you more cautious than the rest of the population.

 

“My?” He freezes slightly when Cedric moves and settles down on his lap. Ridiculous to be scared of a three-year-old but when your three-year-old starts saying things that should belong in The Others, there’s a good reason to be frightened.

 

Next to him, Mycroft stirs. “My? Hey, My,” he says again, this time with a poke to what he thinks must be Mycroft’s ribs. It’s difficult to tell in the dimly lit room. “Cedric’s here and he’s talking weird again.”

 

Disgruntled, Mycroft sits up as well. His hair is just as wild as his brother’s, and for a moment Greg forgets about Cedric. It still startles him how there are two Mycrofts: the first being the imposing figure Sherlock grudgingly calls ‘big brother’ and the one John jokingly calls ‘the British Government, and the second as his husband and bond mate. It’s not that Mycroft’s emotionally different when he’s with Greg. He acts less like a statue, yes, but it’s the small details Greg likes, the ones other people would dismiss. Right now it’s in Mycroft’s startlingly messy hair. Greg doubts anyone else has seen him like this, not even Sherlock or Mycroft’s mother.

 

“What have you said now, Cedric?” Mycroft asks. His eyes are a little bloodshot. Greg thinks his are the same. They don’t get enough sleep because of their jobs and because of the kids. Complaining about it is out of the question. Even now Mycroft’s still badgering on about his job. He means well, of course, but Greg likes his independence and not even Mycroft can take that away from him. At least, not without a fight.

 

“I said I want to peel Daddy’s skin off!” Cedric says loudly. The cheerful tone only makes it more disturbing. Greg’s already considering child psychiatrists, or even possibly exorcists. He’s not a religious man but when your kid starts spouting words like that, there really isn’t a choice. Greg thinks it won’t do well if his children start telling their teachers they’re Satanists. He can already picture the numerous parent-teacher meetings he’ll have to attend in the future.

 

Cedric pinches his bare shoulder, making him jump.

 

“Why is it just my skin?” Greg grumbles as Cedric moves off him and latches onto Mycroft. “Why can’t it be your skin? You have freckles. No, wait, how about Luke’s? He’s got tattoos.”

 

“He’s talking about your sunburn,” Mycroft explains calmly. It’s an art, Greg things, one that Mycroft has mastered. The world can end and Mycroft will just sit in his office, sipping Earl Grey and not caring. He cradles Cedric in his arms. Cedric wraps his arms around Mycroft, his face pressed against his neck, scenting him. “Your skin _is_ peeling. Look.”

 

Greg looks, then scratches at the flaky skin on the back of his hand. It wasn’t a vacation, but a murder case that had them spending far too long under the sun while the Thames reeked behind them. Greg remembers the mangled body of the teen they found in the bank. He shudders inwardly. It really is no wonder he’s easily disturbed. Maybe that’s what he dreamt of.

 

Cedric looks up. “Papa, I’m hungry.” He whispers the words like it’s a secret.

 

“It’s four in the morning,” Mycroft tells him.

 

“Hungry,” he repeats, this time with a somewhat harsh tug at Mycroft’s hair.

 

Other parents would make deals with their children, deals like ‘if you sleep for one more hour then we’ll eat breakfast together’. It is either that or they’ll promptly tell their children to shut up and go to sleep. It’s one of Greg’s earliest memories, his father telling him that. Biologically, his father’s a Beta, but you’d mistake him for an Alpha when it comes to kids. He’s caring but rough around the edges, the kind of father who forces his children to play rugby or football, but also the kind of father who just knows the right thing to say when you’re feeling down. A walking paradox is what his mother likes to call him. They’re good people, his parents. His childhood was certainly great. However, he didn’t learn much about taking care of his children from either of them. Besides, Holmesian children are different. They’re all a little strange and more than a little advanced for their age. Most times, Greg has no idea how to act around them.

 

He does, however, know that it won’t do well to tell Cedric to shut up and go back to his own bed.

 

“Is your sister still asleep?” Mycroft asks.

 

“No. She’s scared of the monsters under the bed so she won’t come here.”

 

“I see,” Mycroft says patiently. Greg grins. It’s so weird how Mycroft’s the one who’s good with kids, not him. “It wouldn’t be fair if we leave her there. How about we go to the kitchen and get you two something to eat?”

 

“Can I stay here?” Greg asks over Cedric’s babbling. Mycroft looks at him. “I haven’t slept properly in ages. I mean, if it’s alright with you, of course.”

 

“No, it’s fine.” Mycroft gets out of bed with Cedric in his arms. “It wouldn’t do well if you fell asleep on the job.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

He smiles gratefully then slides back beneath the sheets. Cedric keeps talking as they leave. “Bye, Daddy!” he calls over Mycroft’s shoulder.

 

“I think you mean ‘goodnight’. Oh, wait, it’s morning already. But ‘goodnight’, nonetheless.”

 

“No, Daddy,” Cedric says. His seriousness makes Greg sit up again. “It’s ‘goodbye’.”

 

And, to Greg’s horror, he solemnly waves at a darkened corner of the room before Mycroft whisks him away. Greg sits there for a few moments before he decides that he’s not going to be able to fall asleep after that. With one last glance at the dark corner, he gets out of bed and joins his family in the kitchen.

 

The house they have is much smaller than the estate. By rights, it belongs to Mycroft but as living there is inconvenient for both of them, it’s become a vacation spot. Even his mother-in-law doesn’t live there anymore. Mycroft’s mother stays in France most of the time with her family, something Greg has never been entirely comfortable with. They’re a dysfunctional family, the Holmeses. Greg doesn’t want his kids growing up in that kind of environment. He knows Mycroft doesn’t, either. Greg suspects it’s the reason why he’s so attached to the children, why he’s always there to entertain them when they ask for him.

 

“I take it Cedric’s said something again,” Mycroft says when he stumbles in the kitchen. The smell of hot chocolate wafts in the air. Greg wrinkles his nose then moves to the coffeemaker.

 

“Are you sure that’s normal for a three-year-old?” Greg asks once he’s done. He takes the seat next to Beatrice. She sidles up to him. Greg automatically puts an arm around her.

 

Mycroft sets his mug down and stares at him. His look says ‘I’m going to tell you a story and you are going to listen’. Greg braces himself. Mycroft’s anecdotes are always surprising. Entertaining, but shocking.

 

“When Sherlock was twenty-three months old,” Mycroft begins solemnly, “he again managed to escape the watch of our sitter. I was nine at the time and couldn’t be bothered with taking care of Sherlock. Back then, he had the irritating habit of screaming at inanimate objects in order to rile up every single person in the household. One of our maids quit because of that.

 

“I was in the library, reading about quantum physics when he entered. I remember that day clearly. He had his bear with him—do you remember that?”

 

“The weird bee-bear thing? Yeah. It’s still in his old room.”

 

“Yes, well, he had this stuffed animal in one hand, and something in the other. Along with the screaming, he also had the annoying habit of being naked from the waist down—something he’s obviously not rid of yet.”

 

“John has yet to complain,” Greg jokes.

 

“Greg, _please_ ”

 

“Sorry. Continue.”

 

“Anyway, I was prepared to ignore him and ignore him I did. At least, until he started screaming again. At that age, his words were often ‘hi’ or ‘bye’ and of course, the very endearing ‘no’. What he said that day got me to look up from my book and yell for help.

 

“Apparently, he’d managed to steal one of Father’s bronze lighters, the ones he kept in his office. He set one of the bookshelves on fire and he just stood there, repeatedly telling it to die.”

 

Greg’s smile feels forced. Hearing that story assures Greg that Sherlock is secretly the antichrist. “And you? What, er, adorable baby stories revolve around you? The uncensored ones. The only things I hear are about how clever you were—are.”

 

“I was very well-behaved.”

 

Mycroft’s smile is teasing and Greg knows that he was far from well-behaved. Mycroft is dangerous, a lot more dangerous than Sherlock, actually. Greg wonders what it says about him, that he finds this fact more arousing than disturbing. Well, his mother did say he always liked to run around with scissors. Or chainsaws when it comes to Mycroft.

 

He’s always been like that, cold and mysterious, even when he’s not out there being the British Government. Greg remembers when he was thirteen, the age he and Mycroft got together. He remembers Mycroft asking him out, quite formally, right after football practice. It had been intimidating. They’d been the only kids in the restaurant and yet the manager had nearly fallen on his arse doing his best to entertain them. Even then, Mycroft was influential. Greg laughs at the memory.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing,” Greg laughs. “I just remembered that time you took me out. The first time. In that bloody posh restaurant. I looked at the menu and I thought, ‘Damn it, they don’t even serve soda here.’ First date I’d ever been to and also the worst.”

 

Mycroft’s an expert in keeping his emotions in check. His face remains impassive, but Greg’s learned to read him. The corners of his mouth are tense, meaning he’s upset. Greg grins at him. “My sixteenth birthday,” he begins, “You were really sick. You were just recovering from pneumonia, actually. Sherlock, the git, told me you were dying. I came to your house to visit you but your mother said you weren’t there. She told me to get in one of the cars. Derek—that was your driver’s name, right? Well, anyway, Derek drove for a long time and finally stopped in one of your family’s stupid warehouses. I thought I was going to get murdered. And then you show up, still sick and exhausted, and tell me that we’re going to watch a match. I thought those tickets were sold out ages ago. I could have killed you. I hugged you so hard your face went blue. That was the best date ever.”

 

The coffeemaker finishes gurgling. Greg gets up and pours himself a mug.

 

“So far,” Mycroft says.

 

Greg turns around. “Hmm?”

 

“Your best date so far,” Mycroft says impatiently.

 

Greg cocks his head to one side and studies him. “Are you saying you’re going to make it up to me, Mycroft Holmes?” he teases.

 

Mycroft huffs. “I’m aware I haven’t been around lately.”

 

“There was that time in Bolivia.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And South Africa.”

 

“Well, yes.”

 

“And Latvia.”

 

Mycroft winces at that one. Greg has no idea what happened in Latvia. He doesn’t want to know, really.

 

“And you went to Thailand as well, right?”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft says tiredly. “I apologise.”

 

Greg drinks his coffee hastily, in order to hide the shit-eating grin he’s sure is on his face. Mycroft Holmes apologising to him? Mycroft Holmes apologising at all? It’s as if he’s won the lottery. He has yet to get Sherlock to say sorry to him whenever he does something wrong, but at least Mycroft isn’t above things like that.

 

“I forgive you.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Should I kiss you right now as well?”

 

Mycroft looks at him, waiting. Greg snorts, sets his mug on the counter, then goes to him and kisses him deeply. Now if the kids can just go back to sleep, they can move this somewhere else.

 

“Are you going to have sex?”

 

Bloody hell.

 

“Where did you hear that word?” Greg asks, appalled. He pulls away from Mycroft immediately.

 

“Uncle Sher,” his daughter replies proudly. “Only he was talking to Uncle John. I asked him what that meant and Uncle Sher said it’s something people do when they like each other.”

 

“Oh.” Greg’s surprised by that. Sherlock doesn’t hold back, not even for kids. Greg had a feeling he’d told Beatrice exactly how sex worked. He can just imagine it, Sherlock sitting his children down and telling them in a clinical voice where to put what and where.

 

“He also said it’s when they jump on the bed without their clothes on,” Beatrice adds.

 

Greg is going to kill him.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t happen all at once, which is why it’s taken John one year and another trip to Tesco to realize that the flat doesn’t belong to just him anymore. To be more specific, it’s taken one year, a trip to Tesco, and an observant clerk to tell him this.

 

“Your partner uses a lot of shampoo. Sharing a flat with him must be hell,” is what she says. John tears his eyes away from his phone and watches as she puts about fifteen containers of shampoo in a plastic bag. Sherlock texted him a moment ago and ordered him to buy different types of hair products. John wonders why he didn’t ask. He’s gotten used to it, he supposes. Now, he thinks that it _is_ an unhealthy amount of shampoo. The woman behind him is staring at the bottles. She’s probably thinking that he has a strong case of OCD or that he works in a hair salon, neither of which make John feel very confident.

 

“I don’t really share a flat with him,” John replies after shooting the woman a small smile that hopefully means ‘I’m just doing this for my boyfriend’. Her answering grimace does little to reassure him. “He only comes over for the weekend.”

 

“And the sex?” the clerk asks brashly. The woman in line glares at both of them then grabs her loaf of bread and moves to another clerk. She grins at him.

 

“It sure makes up for the mess he makes.”

 

The girl laughs good-naturedly before she rings another customer.

 

The walk back is uneventful. It’s Monday so John thinks that his whole day will be Sherlock-free as well. He has plans and none of them include Sherlock. Bill and Patrick have their leave and his whole week is supposed to be spent hanging out with them. He’s already stocked up on enough beer and crisps to last a lifetime, or rather, twenty years if they’re planning to consume it all in one sitting. The med student in John winces at the thought but he supposes that he can make an excuse. He doesn’t need to be called a wet blanket again nor does he want to be force fed by his, by then, very drunk and very enthusiastic friends.

 

But when John walks in, the smell of something burning hits him hard. Sherlock is nowhere to be found but there are traces of him everywhere. There are wet towels near the front door and an empty bag of crisps shoved none too subtly under the sofa. John investigates the flat. He finds that the burning smell turns out to be another one of Sherlock’s horrid experiments. The sink is filled with charred pieces of hair, all floating in soapy water. The rest of the kitchen—John doesn’t even want to go there. It should be impossible but Sherlock has managed lift his pigsty of a flat to a whole new level. A whole new disgusting level.

 

“Sher!” he shouts. The walls are thin and he’s sure that his neighbours have heard that. But as this isn’t the first time John’s had an argument with Sherlock in his flat, he can’t really make himself care. There’s no response, though. John forces himself to calm down before he moves to the bathroom.

 

He can hear the shower running but the sound of Sherlock talking to himself is absent. The door is slightly ajar as well. For a moment, John wonders whether or not he should open it. But then he realizes that he has seen Sherlock naked countless of times already so seeing him naked in the shower shouldn’t be different from seeing him naked in bed. Or just walking around, too lazy to put on clothes.

 

Upon entering, John discovers that Sherlock has slipped into his catatonic I’m-in-my-mind-palace mode inside that bath. He’s naked, his legs tucked to his chest and his chin resting on his knees, his eyes staring aimlessly ahead. The water has long overflown so half the bathroom is now soaked. John quickly turns off the shower, swearing loudly when his socks drink up the flood. God, how he hates wet socks.

 

Sherlock hasn’t reacted to his presence. John would be concerned but he knows by looking at Sherlock’s face that he’s processing information and not stressing over something. He’s probably thinking about the hair in the sink. He _should_ be thinking about the hair in the sink and how he’s going to clean that up.

 

There’s a trick to getting Sherlock out of his trance and it’s by putting weight on his feet. John discovered this accidentally one summer when they were younger. He had made the mistake of sitting on a chair which, as it turned out, was already occupied by Sherlock. Screaming at him or shaking him will piss Sherlock off. John’s tried that and those tactics are definitely never to be repeated again, not if John wants to be covered in bruises. But the weight thing doesn’t make him freak out. However, his feet are currently submerged in lukewarm water and John doesn’t want to get his clothes wet. There are two options: either leave Sherlock be or haul him out of the bath and into John’s room.

 

“The things I do for you,” John mutters as he rolls up his sleeves. Sherlock doesn’t say anything when he slides his arms underneath him, but when John braces himself to lift, he moves and makes a displeased sound.

 

Without saying anything, he pushes John away and steps out of the bath, completely naked and dripping all over the place. John gapes at him. Shaking his head, he follows Sherlock out, ready to lecture him, only to have his path obstructed by the very solid door of his bedroom. “Oh come on!” John says loudly. He doesn’t yell, can’t anyway. He settles instead for throwing his hands up in frustration and glaring daggers at the door. “If you’re going to sulk or do your deduction-thing can you please not do it in my flat? Bill and Pat are coming over.”

 

As expected, there is no response.

 

Great. It’s not that he minds Sherlock staying in his flat as it certainly has its advantages. Company, for example. And of course, there’s that important fact that when he’s not out disturbing the masses, Sherlock walks around in nothing but a sheet and, well, it’s not like John can look away, right? But John’s friends are coming over and he doesn’t want any of them ogling his boyfriend, or worse, his boyfriend joining them and laying out every embarrassing thing Patrick and Bill had done in the army. Sherlock has done that before and while neither of his friends are new to Sherlock’s rudeness, their patience has a limit.

 

He cleans the flat as best as he can. There’s far too much mess for the flat to be considered clean but at least it looks more presentable with Sherlock’s things out of the way.

 

It takes him nearly an hour and a half to clear up everything. By the time he’s done, he’s bone-tired and half-dead on the sofa. John stirs when he hears the bedroom door creak open. The sofa sinks a little to his left. “You make too much of a mess,” he complains as he sits up.

 

“Where’d you put the shampoo?” Sherlock turns to him and John…just stares.

 

“Huh,” is all he says. It makes him sound stupid but he thinks it is excusable to sound stupid when faced with a situation like this. His stomach begins to make cartwheels and his dick is thinking _fuck this, I want that_ now.  

 

The thing is, they don’t have sex as often as John wants. If Sherlock wants to then John is all too happy to oblige. But if he’s not in the mood, which is usually, John better stay away. Once, he made the mistake of trying to get Sherlock pliant and willing, only to be rewarded with a hissy fit and a massive sulk that lasted for a whole week. It’s odd that among John’s friends—even Bill and Patrick who are in the bloody army for goddsake—it’s him who’s balls have turned as blue as fuck.

 

But even when Sherlock’s usually dormant libido finally, finally wakes, John still has to work for it as Sherlock never asks him directly. It becomes a game to him. He’ll tease John, sometimes by wearing worryingly skin-tight clothes or sometimes by wearing nothing but a sheet. Other times, he’ll be lying on the sofa with his arms stretched above him so that his shirt rides up, exposing a strip of pale skin that never fails to make John’s mouth water. John will play along but too long of it will leave Sherlock annoyed and frustrated with him, which again leads to another week of you-can-look-but-there-is-absolutely-no-way-you-are-touching-this.

 

So John times it correctly. He pays attention to Sherlock, and when neither them can take it anymore, John will go to him and ask, and with a roll of his eyes, Sherlock will say yes, of course, John, _if you insist._

Either Sherlock is just too lazy or he wants to play. He’s not naked but he might as well be. John’s bathrobe, is after all, far too small, even for John. It should look ridiculous on Sherlock. It looks ridiculous on John, actually, so it should look ridiculous on Sherlock who’s all skinny arms and long legs. Perhaps he does, but John’s southern areas are definitely interested.

 

“Is this your way of distracting me from the mess you made?”

 

Sherlock smirks at him.

 

Bugger.

 

“Because it’s not going to work.”

 

Sherlock shrugs. The robe isn’t tied properly. The movement causes the robe to slide down his shoulder ever so slightly, giving John a better view of Sherlock’s neck.

 

John blinks. Sherlock stares back. Mentally, John sorts through the options. A) Give in and fuck Sherlock senseless, b) go to his room and deny Sherlock sex, c) drive Sherlock away from the flat, or d) cancel on friends and just do option a.

 

Option A seems good.

 

“So…” John says, trailing off immediately once the word is out of his mouth. He’s never sure how to initiate sex to Sherlock. Sherlock is…different from all of John’s past sexual encounters. He mocks you relentlessly, for one thing. And John doubts he’ll ever find anyone who talks about gruesome experiments while receiving a blow job.

 

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes. His arms are crossed, his expression impatient, and John decides to forgo words and just get on with it.

 

 Sherlock looks at him blankly when he suddenly drops to his knees in front of him. “What are you doing?” he demands.

 

John shrugs. He’s not exactly sure what he’s doing. His mind doesn’t. His body does, however, and step one is to push Sherlock’s legs apart. Part of him is thinking that they should really do this in bed as the sofa is quite uncomfortable, but the thing is he’s on his knees with Sherlock’s arse in full view and the thought that’s winning, the one that’s currently controlling him, is already moving on to step two.

 

“John, what are you— _oh!_ ”

 

John sits back and looks at Sherlock. He’s blinking rapidly, a stunned expression on his face. He looks so shocked John’s already dreading another kick to whatever part of him is reachable. He’s almost getting ready to watch Sherlock stalk off to the bedroom. But then Sherlock speaks, in a voice hoarser than usual. “You may continue,” he says. His eyes are still wide, in that oh-I’ve-just-made-a-brilliant-discovery way.

 

“I have things to do,” John teases. He holds him firmly by his hips, his thumbs rubbing gently over the sharp bones beneath his skin. John lays an open-mouth kiss on the back of Sherlock’s thigh, making the other man tremble.

 

“You don’t have anything else to do,” Sherlock says. His voice is surprisingly steady. Challengingly steady, John’s mind corrects.

 

“I had plans. Your nudity ruined them.”

 

“I’m not naked, I’m wearing a— _oh god_!”

 

They’ve never done this before, and frankly, John has absolutely no idea what kind of sex demon planted the idea in his brain. He’s never gone down on anyone like this, actually, so it’s quite a new experience. And a strange one as well. Sherlock tastes of clean skin and soap and something a little dark, a little musky, and of course that slight sweetness that’s all Sherlock. It’s intoxicating, and John is hoping that Sherlock likes it and doesn’t push him away. Well, he’s screaming right now, so yes, he likes it a lot.

 

Sherlock is babbling. John hears the word ‘hydrogen’ and what seems to be part of the First Law of Thermodynamics, but it’s hard to keep track when one’s tongue is busy doing things that would make his grandmother shoot him with a machine gun. “Oh god, oh fuck,” Sherlock yelps, his voice rising slightly, “is your mouth even supposed to go there?”

 

Frankly, John doesn’t care if this will make him go to hell or wherever. Sherlock feels so fucking good against his tongue. I can do this for an eternity, John thinks for a moment.

 

An eternity won’t work, though, because a minute later, Sherlock’s trying to pull away. It takes John a moment to understand. Well, a foot in his face to be more specific. Before he can even ask what the problem is, a condom is thrown at him. Sherlock _had_ planned this. He wouldn’t have a condom with him if he hadn’t. John looks at the packet and fights the urge to roll his eyes. Orange-flavoured. How sentimental.

 

“Do it,” Sherlock growls impatiently as John climbs over his body. He’s still dressed and Sherlock tells him this by practically destroying the zipper of his trousers. His hand slips inside John’s pants. Sherlock’s grip on him is harsh, to the point of being painful. John swears.

 

“Goddamn it, Sher, stop strangling my dick,” he snaps. It sounds stupid and funny, even to his own head. Sherlock calms down enough to crack a smile, which turns into a mix between a laugh and a gasp when John nuzzles his neck.

 

“Slow,” John tells him. Sherlock says nothing, but he nods his assent.

 

The image of Sherlock being fucked is one of those things John hopes he’ll remember forever. He’s impossibly beautiful like this, his skin flushed, his eyes bright, and his bottom lip red from biting it. He screws his eyes shut when John slides in deeper, moves his head to the side to give John access to the sensitive skin beside his ear. He’s quiet for once, focusing more on the sensations rather than the never-ending thoughts inside his head. John grabs his hands and joins them together on his chest. John keeps his grip strong, strong enough to prevent Sherlock from touching himself. The front of John’s robe becomes horribly wrinkled but neither of them can really give a damn.

 

Soon enough, Sherlock whines and wrenches his right hand free from John’s grasp. He traps his fist in his mouth, doing his best to muffle the noises he’s making. Normally, John would mind, but it’s noon and Sherlock is loud when he comes, especially when’s being pinned down by John. John’s pretty sure his neighbours are getting sick of hearing his name being screamed, along with cries of ‘oh god’ and ‘harder’. Still, John has yet to hear them complain. He suspects they’ve accidentally turned themselves into a pornographic audiobook.

 

There’s a desperation to Sherlock’s movements now. John speeds up and loses himself to the feeling of sliding in and out of Sherlock. The heat pools in his belly, and soon enough, he comes with a small shout. His body begins to sag in relief but John holds himself up, determined to finish Sherlock off. It doesn’t take long. Five more thrusts and Sherlock finds release. He bites down hard on his knuckles, so much that John worries he may have broken the skin.

 

“Amazing,” John breathes out once Sherlock’s through. He deposits the condom then does his best to fix his clothes. His jeans have died on him but at least his shirt has survived Sherlock’s abuse. The perpetrator looks at him with half-lidded eyes. The robe he’s wearing is soiled. He definitely needs a shower. Again, John might add.

 

“I can’t believe this is my life,” John continues. He’s aware that he’s babbling but the words can’t be stopped. He’s always like this after they have sex, while Sherlock becomes boneless and too tired to even think. “Shagging and it’s not even lunch yet. I’m having friends over, do you know that?”

  
“You’re dressed for it,” Sherlock mumbles. His head’s thrown back, exposing his pale throat which John sees is mottled with a few bruises. His eyes are closed now. The sight of his tired face reminds John that Bill and Patrick will come in sometime soon and it won’t do well if they come in and find Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, practically naked and thoroughly fucked.

 

“Come on, you git, get up,” John says as he playfully smacks Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock grunts but doesn’t move.

 

“You’re not going to move, huh?”

 

“Hmmm…”

 

“Come on.”

 

“No.”

 

“Sherlock, if you don’t get your arse off that sofa, I will never have sex with you again.”

 

But since John has never been good at making threats about withholding things that are equally pleasurable to both of them, he ends up carrying Sherlock to his room. “You’re strong,” Sherlock mumbles sleepily. He’s so tired he doesn’t even register the fact that John accidentally smacks his feet against a bookshelf, or that John nearly drops him when he shifts and presses his face against John’s neck. He’s not heavy; he’s worryingly light, in fact. But Sherlock’s tall and gangly, and if John’s not careful, he might end up hitting Sherlock’s head or feet against walls.

 

“You know,” John says when they reach the room, “this is only done when people get married. Beta custom. Groom carrying the bride and stuff.”

 

“I’m not wearing a dress, if that’s what you’re implying. Nor am I getting married to you.”

 

“I’m not implying—wait, what?”

 

Sherlock yawns. “Marriage is boring,” he mumbles as John sets him down. “It’s just for legal documents, so that if you get a divorce you’re entitled to give money to your partner. Bonding doesn’t have that.”

 

“Sherlock, are you saying…I…” He’s aware that he sounds like an idiot. But the thing his supposed bond mate for thirteen years and boyfriend for sixteen months is practically telling him to sod off.

 

Sherlock cracks one eye open. “Oh for the love of—” He groans in frustration. “John, I do not need a piece of paper to tell me what our relationship is, nor do I want to change my name.”

 

“Greg’s married to Mycroft and he didn’t change his last name,” John points out.

 

“That’s because Greg Holmes sounds absolutely dreadful. There’s also the fact that Greg works for the police. He might be an idiot sometimes but he’s not as incompetent as he looks. Make him a DI and people will know his name. Do you know how many enemies Mycroft has? Why do you think he and Greg seldom interact in public? And besides, Mycroft’s a traditionalist. He’ll do anything to make Mummy proud of him.

 

“I don’t believe in marriage, John. You’re an Alpha, I’m an Omega so bonding should be enough for the two of us. It’s stronger, anyway, and subtle.”

 

“More intimate?” John jokes gently.

 

Sherlock glares at him before throwing the duvet over his head. John pokes the lump experimentally. When Sherlock doesn’t respond, he throws and arm and a leg over and pulls the lump-slash-Sherlock to his chest. Sherlock mutters something about ‘imbeciles’. The duvet has slid off part of his head, giving John a good view of his hair.

 

“I’m still going to ask you to marry me,” John tells him. “No ceremony, no documents, and no ring, either. Just you and me.”

 

“And the skull.”

 

John rolls his eyes. He doesn’t even know where that skull came from, though it does look familiar. It’s currently sitting on the floor and is staring at them with its hollow eye sockets. Sherlock has the annoying habit of bringing it with him wherever he goes.

 

“I can’t say no to it, can I?”

 

“Of course not, John. Saying ‘no’ would be boring.”

 

John kisses his hair. Sherlock makes a displeased noise. “Do you promise not to walk out naked when Bill and Patrick come over?”

 

Sherlock turns to him. There’s a pause, a long one. John waits for it.

 

“No, I cannot guarantee that.”

 

He should have gone for Option D.

 

* * *

 

 

“She came in through the bathroom window. Can you believe that?” DI Strednick laughs jovially. He smacks his hands on the steering wheel, his palm barely missing the horn. Greg grins at him. “Was having a nice leak and there she goes, popping her head in the window above me. Gave me such a fright I nearly hit her with my spray.”

 

Greg chuckles. “Maybe you should have, sir.”

 

“I bloody should have!” Strednick yells. “I’m telling you, Lestrade, when your own children are teenagers they’ll do anything—absolutely anything—to twist your knickers. Even when you’re not wearing knickers you’ll just feel it! Those little bastards, always crawling up your arse.”

 

He sighs then huffs angrily. “And don’t you call me ‘sir’! You make me feel like an old man.”

 

To be fair, DI Strednick is an old man. He’s only a few years younger than Greg’s father but he has whiter hair, more wrinkles, and a great moustache that either makes him look like a cartoon character or a happy walrus. Greg likes him. He’s a funny old man who enjoys calling Greg ‘son’. Donovan, of course, hates him because of his lack of professionalism. But who says you can’t have fun every now and then when you’re working?

 

“Feisty girl, that Donovan,” Strednick says as if he’s just read his thoughts. “Thought she was a coward when she first joined us. Didn’t know she could bring Hammond to tears.”

 

“She’s an Alpha,” Greg mutters. He turns to the window which is rolled down halfway. He can see the other car, the one holding Donovan and a Sergeant whose name Greg always forgets, following them from the side mirror. “That’s what they do.”

 

“You’re not intimidated by her.”

 

Greg smirks, thinking of Mycroft. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

 

“With that Alpha of yours?” Strednick asks. “Never met him.”

 

“He travels a lot,” Greg mumbles. “He’s somewhere in Northern Europe right now.”

 

“And the kids?”

 

“With their godfather, Luke.” Greg smiles a little. “You’ve met him. Well, _arrested_ him. DUI somewhere near Surrey.”

 

Strednick nods in recognition. “I arrested that boy thrice. He’s funny, that one. He tells nice jokes.”

 

Strednick remains silent for a while. There’s a nice song playing but Greg doesn’t dare sing the lyrics. Strednick has enough problems with his rebellious children. He doesn’t need to know about Greg’s own past, about the times he nearly got arrested as well. Luke always got caught.

 

“So you like it then?” he asks when the Beastie Boys are replaced by an annoying pop song.

 

“Hmm?” Greg tears his eyes away from the green fields. “Like what?”

 

Strednick waves a fat hand. “This. Interrogating suspects, calming down victims, assuring witnesses they’re not going to get their heads blown up. I’ve been doing this for years, son. It gets tiring eventually. You’re good at your job, you know? I have a feeling you’ll become a DI in less than two years.”

 

Greg smiles at that. More work. How wonderful.

 

“You’ve seen my brother-in-law,” Greg says. “Sherlock. The one with the funny hair? He needs a lot of people looking out for him, and since he loves getting arrested so much, I can safely say he needs me. Of course, he’ll never admit it.”

 

Strednick nods. Silence falls over them again, and this time, Greg doesn’t feel like breaking it. He leans against the window, relishing the cool fresh air. He’s exhausted, still. He thinks about closing his eyes for a moment, of taking a small nap during the rest of the ride. But when he feels the car slow down, he knows it’s not happening.

 

“Nasty crash,” Strednick remarks. He’s already halfway out the car by the time Greg’s unbuckled his seatbelt. “Come on, let’s check if anyone’s alive.”

 

* * *

 

 

The pub they go to reeks of sweat and piss. The counters are sticky, the glasses covered in a thin layer of dust, and the beer tastes like rubbing alcohol. It’s not even dark yet but it’s already crowded. The telly is on, and even though it’s playing an old video of a football match that happened months ago, it still manages to catch the attention of a group of middle-aged men who must have played the sport during their time. The women are either chatting with friends or flirting with potential mates. The noise level is incredibly, irritatingly high.

 

John Watson has missed this.

 

“Her.” Bill points at a woman with bright red lipstick then at John. “I challenge you to go get her number.”

 

John grins but shakes his head. “I’m not cheating on Sherlock,” he says for what seems to be the third time. Patrick snorts. It’s too bad Mike isn’t present. With him gone, John’s the only one available to make fun of.

 

“I’m not telling you to go shag her,” Bill says exasperatedly. “Just let us see if that old Watson charm’s still there, mate. Come on.”

 

“We also made a bet,” Patrick adds, ignoring the glare Bill sends his way. “Fifty for me if you don’t get it, fifty for Bill if you do.”

 

John rolls his eyes. “The army hasn’t changed either of you one bit. You’re still twats.”

 

He does it anyway. The woman is older than him by about five years but John knows how to flirt. She gives him his number in the end while looking at him lasciviously all the time. “You’ve a pre-bond,” she says as her hand snakes up his arm. The felt tip pen she uses to write her number tickles his forearm. He tries not to squirm. “Your mate won’t mind?”

 

John smiles at her politely once she’s finished. “He’d kill me, actually,” he admits before he goes back to their table, the black digits standing out against his skin. Patrick swears loudly, then hands a crumpled note to Bill.

 

“I could kiss you, John,” Bill says happily as he slides the note in his pocket.

 

John shakes his head. “Please don’t.”

 

Bill snorts. John misses the look he and Patrick exchange. It’s a dangerous look, that one. It’s a look that means his friends will be very immature again and that things will end up badly for John.

 

Strong hands grab his face forcefully, squishing his cheeks so that he can barely breathe. “Pucker up, Watson,” Bill says in a disgusting voice before he dives right in and practically eats John’s nose.  It’s an unpleasant experience to have someone’s tongue in your left nostril. He hears Patrick laughing hysterically in the background. John wants to kill him.

 

“Mwah!” Bill cries as he releases him. His chin shines with saliva. John’s eye twitches.

 

“That was disgusting,” John mutters. He rubs his face with the sleeve of his jumper. He wonders if Sherlock will be able to deduce that Bill had a happy snog with his nose. John prays that he doesn’t.

 

“I pity your supervisors, Murray.”

 

“They love me.”

 

“They hate him,” Patrick says. “Too bad he’s only a medic. They can’t send him to the battlefield.”

 

“While they fight, we get the girls,” Bill explains. “It’s like one big family, the army. I mean, sure sometimes someone loses an arm or a leg, but it’s plenty of fun. You don’t really have any worries until it’s staring us right in the face.”

 

“That’s troublesome,” John says, but there’s a bit of reluctance in his voice. He clears his throat then takes a long drink.

 

Patrick shrugs. “We’re Alphas, John. Fucking adrenaline junkies. You need a fix, you join the army. People don’t do it for queen and country anymore.” John frowns at that.

 

“So how’s life?” Bill asks, changing the topic. “How’s the family.” His smile turns into an impish grin. “How’s Harriet?”

 

“Life is amazing, my sister and mother are visiting some relatives up north, and I swear to god, Murray, if you so much as touch my sister I won’t hesitate to pull your limbs out of their sockets. She’s sixteen-years-old and she prefers female Betas anyway. Hands off.”

 

Bill seems to contemplate that. He sits up, stares at his glass, then nods slowly. John shakes his head at him.

 

“How’s Sherlock, then?”

 

“Oh, piss off!”

 

* * *

 

 

Greg feels sick. He moves away from the wreck. His hands are shaking horribly and his stomach feels like it’s being folded into two inside his body. The paramedics are talking rapidly but Greg can’t understand what they’re saying.

 

He’s in desperate need for a cigarette.

 

“You alright?” It’s Sally Donovan, the newcomer who’d made Hammond from the forensic team cry. Greg smiles tightly at her.

 

“I’m fine,” he says. “I just…need to make a call.”

 

She frowns at him. “You don’t look too good. Maybe you should—”

 

She leaps back when he doubles over and throws up all over the nice green grass. How unprofessional, he thinks sourly.

 

* * *

 

 

“We’re good, okay?” John mutters. He’s blushing furiously. He knows he shouldn’t but the thing is, it still feels strange to talk about his relationship with Sherlock to other people. “We get along great.”

 

“Perfect?” Patrick asks.

 

John shrugs, remembering the screaming and the random body parts. “Well, not really perfect. But good…Just good.” There’s a bit of beer left in his glass. He picks it up, raises it to his mouth, then sets it back down again without drinking. “Well, sometimes…”

 

“Sometimes?” Bill prompts. He’s not really listening. An attractive Beta has caught his attention. John, however, doesn’t notice that he’s not even listening anymore so he continues.

 

“Sometimes I sit there and wonder if that’s all we’ll ever be.”

 

Patrick stares at him for a long time. And then he laughs loudly, causing a chain reaction among them. John giggles. “Went deep for a moment there,” he says.

 

“You’re drunk, I think,” Patrick, who is already more than a little drunk, tells him.

 

“No more for me, then. How about you guys?”

 

They nod and mutter their appraisal. John rummages in his pockets. “Hmm,” he says as he hands the bartender more money, “I think I left my phone in the flat.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock has been talking to the skull for half an hour when John’s phone rings. Stupid John, he thinks as he sets the skull on the kitchen counter and moves to the living room. The phone lies on the coffee table, along with a few empty bottles of shampoo.

 

“John’s an idiot. He left his phone again. Sherlock speaking so make it quick and not boring,” Sherlock says before the person at the other end of the line can answer. He drops himself on the sofa. The skull grins at him from where it sits.

 

“Sherlock?” It’s Greg. “Where’s John?”

 

Greg sounds shaken, so unlike his usual self. Sherlock immediately sits up. “What happened?” he demands.

 

He hears the sirens in the background, the panicked murmurs of other people. He doesn't need the words. He knows what happened. “There’s been an accident,” Greg finally says, confirming Sherlock’s suspicions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, survived reading that long chapter? You probably thought it was all fluff. Sorry, John. In my potterlock story Obscuro, I keep hurting Sherlock so it's John's turn here...I don't think that makes sense. Oh well.


	17. The Art of Letting Go

The vending machine has eaten John Watson’s money.

 

The blue bag of crisps mocks him from behind the thick glass of the ugly vending machine. John wants to kill the dumb thing, but the rational part of his mind talks him out of it, points out that it’s not a good idea to shout abuse at a machine in front of all these people. He settles for half-slamming his head against the cool glass, the bag of crisps still in his line of vision. He can feel the tears behind his eyes, threatening to slide down his face.

 

He’s not going to cry. He’s not upset. He’s _hungry_. If anyone finds him crying then he’ll just blame it on hunger. No, that’s stupid. He’s not going to cry over a bag of crisps. He’s hungry and crisps won’t solve it. He wants a sandwich, maybe one of his mum’s.

 

That nearly does it for him. He screws his eyes shut and does his best to focus. Somewhere at his knee, a kid asks if he’s going to move. John wants to tell her to shove off, but he doesn’t have the energy to do it. He moves away, enough for the girl to get her food. She delivers a swift quick to the vending machine. Once, twice, and third time’s the charm. To his annoyance, she manages to get the blue bag of crisps John was eyeing moments ago. Free of charge.

 

He’s not going to shout abuse at a little girl, either.

 

Distantly, he thinks that he’s not hungry, not really. He feels empty, hollow, or if not empty then it feels as if his body is too big and he doesn’t _fit_. And he doesn’t anymore. Everything’s just wrong. His mother is dead and his sister is in a coma. There are police officers in the room where his sister has been placed, none of them include Greg, who, to John’s disappointment, tells him that he’s sorry, but it’s not their division. Greg is here, though, along with Sherlock who John can’t even look at. His friends are here as well, along with a few of his relatives, but John doesn’t want to talk to any of them because they say all the wrong things. None of them can make it better. Not even a bag of crisps can make it better. The only person who can make things better whenever he’s upset is in a body bag in a cold morgue.

 

John abandons the vending machine and takes a seat on the hard, white bench beside it. Everyone else is parked outside Harry’s room but John doesn’t want to go back there yet. The police keep asking him questions, questions John can’t even answer because he wasn’t there when it happened.

 

_I was shagging Sherlock when it happened. I was drinking with my friends when it happened. I was laughing my head off when it happened._

John buries his face in his hands. He thinks about how his mother looked when they unzipped the bag, about what Harry looks like right now, about the abrasions on her face and the stitches on the side of her head. Med school taught him not to be afraid of a broken body, to separate his emotions from work. John learned too much. He’s disgusted with himself, hates how beneath the horror he felt upon seeing his mother and Harry, all those medical terms popped in his mind, as if they’re nothing more but bodies for John to experiment and study.

 

Nausea rises in his throat. John fights it back. He wishes, for a moment, that he smoked because he has no idea what to do anymore. Grief makes him more aware of his body, of his hands. Where do you put hands when you’re not using them, anyway? He sits there for a moment, staring at his fingers, and wonders how strange it is that he’s in a hospital waiting room thinking about his _hands_. John curls them into fists and settles for shoving them deep in the pockets of his jeans. He sits there, dejectedly staring at his shoes, when a shadow falls over him.

 

Uncle Lloyd pats his shoulder. He’s never been a handsome man, Uncle Lloyd, but now he just looks awful. His eyes are red and mucus drips from his nose unattractively. “They want to talk to you again, son,” he says. He blows his nose on a crumpled tissue paper, pockets this, then hands John a clean one. John nearly gives it back when he realises, with a start, that he’s been crying for more than five minutes.

 

 

 

Only relatives are allowed in Harry’s room but John didn’t stop badgering the nurses until they let Sherlock in. John doesn’t want to talk to him, doesn’t want to look at him, either, but his presence—his scent, rather—calms John down. The police talking to Uncle Lloyd is unlike Greg. He’s a small and rotund Hispanic man with an arrogant Alpha demeanour. His companion, a bored-looking Beta, is tall, skinnier than Sherlock, and has skin the colour of teakwood. Standing together, they remind John of the number ‘10’. Any other day, he’d laugh at the sight of them, but right now they merely serve as a distraction from the battered body lying in the hospital bed a few feet away from them.

 

There was another driver, a young man whose lorry crashed right into his mother’s car. John finds out that the driver is dead as well and the only witness is Harry, still under a spell of drugs that make her unavailable to the rest of the world. The other driver’s name is—was—Tony Albert. John feels nothing for him, not even anger or disgust. It isn’t Tony he thinks about but the lorry he was driving.

 

The police take turns talking to his uncle. They alternate between comforting him and asking him about his family’s activities before the crash. John tunes them out and hopes that they won’t talk to him again.

 

“You’re wrong.”

 

Sherlock’s looking at one of the cops, at the Beta man who supposed that it was his mother’s fault. Dread fills John and he hopes, prays, that Sherlock won’t do it, that he’ll shut up and just blend in with the background. But John’s not lucky. He shuts his eyes as Sherlock tells his theory of how it happened.

 

_Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!_

It’s not his words that irk John, but his voice. His tone is monotonous, clinical. He can be talking about anything from the way he’s telling them about how his mother died. John forces himself to listen to the words, to maybe find some relief in not being kept out of the dark, of somehow being there. But Sherlock’s voice grips him. He’s breathing hard, fast. Anger courses through his veins and all he can think of is how much he wants to hit Sherlock.

 

Midway, Sherlock falters. He knows he’s felt his anger. And John can feel Sherlock’s response, a mixture of confusion and fear that somehow only fuel John’s anger. John tells himself to stop, that it’s over, but fury blinds his reasoning.

 

“John, no!”

 

His uncle and the Hispanic police man restrain him. Sherlock’s on the floor, staring at John with wide eyes. People have burst in the room, demanding a reason for all the noise. John’s screaming, aware that he’s doing it, but it’s as if he’s being possessed by someone else.

 

“GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!”

 

Greg helps Sherlock up as Bill tries to calm him down. His uncle leads him outside where they take turns soothing him. He isn’t crying but he’s trembling all over and the urge to hit, the urge to hurt anyone, is still strong. Patrick grips his upper arms harshly until the shaking subsides. “It’s okay,” Patrick tells him and John laughs, startling everyone. It’s not that it’s funny, exactly. It’s just that it’s one big fucking lie.

 

* * *

 

 

Victor Trevor is nearly finished with his shift in the local pub. It’s an easy job, just pulling pints for fellow uni students like himself, who, for some reason think that he’s working in order to pay off gambling debts. Apparently, this is the reason most of his colleagues give to Ronnie, their manager. Victor, on the other hand, merely wants some independence and a good excuse so Julian won’t bother him. Not that it changes anything, really. But it’s easier to ignore Julian’s texts when he’s handing pints to Art majors and over-worked med students.

 

“Party with us later, rich boy?” Lucy asks him. She’s changed out of her work clothes and into something more festive. Victor squints at her sequined dress.

 

“Can’t,” he tells her. He steps outside the bar, waves goodbye to Ronnie, then gets his coat. There’s a stain on the front of his shirt, barely visible beneath the dull, yellow light of the pub. Victor buttons his coat nonetheless. “I have to deal with a few things.”

 

Lucy pouts at him. Victor’s eyes fall on her lips and he remembers his first day, of her kissing him swiftly  in the cellar before laughing and telling him it was merely a joke. He doesn’t like her, really, but she’s attractive and he hasn’t shagged anyone in months. Obviously, she’s up for a one-night stand.

 

He clears his head, though. “I have to do things. For my transfer,” he lies. He’s actually finished with everything. Julian would tell him to have fun and just cause as much trouble as he can. Victor knows he should be out there, drinking and smoking with friends, but for some reason, the thought doesn’t appeal to him.

 

Maybe he’s torturing himself.

 

Lucy sighs. “Well if you change your mind,” she tells him. She writes her number on a crumpled scrap of paper then slips it in the pocket of his coat. Her lips press against his cheek. “Benji’s flat. You know the one.”

 

“Sure,” he says as he wipes away the lipstick mark with the back of his hand. “Maybe.”

 

The dorm is quiet when Victor returns. Most of the people are out, some of them in Benji’s party, probably. Something in Victor chides him, scolds him for being such a wet blanket. Victor ignores it. All he wants is some peace and quiet and about seven hours of sleep. He’ll need it when he gets back to his family.

 

It’s the open door that tells him he won’t get it. Victor pauses outside, wondering whether he should go in or not. His hand hovers over the doorknob. He waits for it, waits for Sherlock to spite him and tell him to just come in, but it doesn’t arrive.

 

“Sherlock?” The lights are off. Hesitantly, Victor flicks it open.

 

Victor hasn’t seen him for nearly a week. Physically, Sherlock looks no different from the last time Victor saw him, only he’s wearing different clothes now. John’s scarf, the one he always wears, is tied around his neck securely. Victor has learned to tell Sherlock’s moods through that scarf. He seldom wears it now, only doing so when John is away or when they’ve had an argument. The way it neatly hangs around Sherlock’s neck disturbs Victor. This is different, then, nothing like them fighting about Sherlock’s frequent problems with London’s finest, or about John ruining Sherlock’s experiments.

 

He thinks about Lucy slipping her number in his pocket, about the way her lips felt against his cheek.

 

Victor takes his coat off.

 

“Want something to drink?” he asks as he moves to the other side of the room. They keep a cooler in there, a favour for Krizel who lives in the room across them and needs Victor to hide the cooler from her alcoholic boyfriend. Victor takes a beer and hands one to Sherlock before remembering that Sherlock doesn’t drink. But before he can take it back and offer something better, Sherlock pops the lid off and takes a long swig.

 

He takes a seat on his bed and waits until Sherlock’s ready to talk to him. Victor studies him for a moment. The room is his as well, but he seems out of place here. Sherlock’s bed is neatly-made. The bed sheet is only wrinkled where Sherlock’s weight dips the mattress. Sherlock hasn’t slept in this room for ages. Victor knows where he goes, of course.

 

It doesn’t really bother him anymore.

 

A year ago, maybe. He’s not over him, not entirely, anyway. But at least he’s not pining for him, either. He’s not that pathetic.

 

“John’s mother died,” Sherlock says. His voice is completely blank so it takes a few moments for the words to settle in Victor’s mind. They catch him off-guard.

 

_Then why are you here then?_

“Car crash,” Sherlock continues in the same flat voice. “His sister survived but she’s in a comatose right now. The only witness to the accident, apparently, so they’re waiting for her to wake up. An officer had a few theories about what happened but they were so far-fetched that I just cut in and told him my views on it. John—” Sherlock stops and for the first time since he got here, Victor sees a flicker of emotion cross his face. Fear, Victor thinks incredulously. It’s the first time he’s ever seen Sherlock afraid. It was only for a second but there’s no mistaking it.

 

“John got angry and shoved me,” Sherlock finishes. He scowls at the bottle in his hand then takes a long drink. Half of it’s gone by the time Sherlock puts the bottle down.

 

“He didn’t—didn’t hit you? Punch you or anything?”

 

Sherlock glares at him. “No,” he says. “John would never do that.” But there’s a bit of doubt in his voice that makes Victor think otherwise. Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed it, but he’s known Sherlock for ages. And while they’re not exactly close, Victor has been with him long enough to tell what Sherlock’s feeling.

 

“But I thought—”

 

“Don’t be an idiot, Victor.”

 

An uneasy silence has fallen among them. Victor is surprised that he feels annoyed at Sherlock. The thing is, he’s still attracted to him. He can’t change that. But it annoys Victor that Sherlock treats him no better than that dumb skull he likes to carry around with him. The only thing that makes him better than it is that he can ask not-so-idiotic questions and bring him tea or coffee from the vending machine down the hall when Sherlock asks him to fetch him a drink. He doesn’t want a relationship with Sherlock. He’s not John and frankly, there are times when Sherlock just annoys him, like now. But a little respect won’t do anyone harm.

 

“What do you want me to do about it, then?” he asks, his voice spiteful. Victor bites the inside of his cheek. He both regrets and loves that he spoke out like that. Sherlock says nothing but Victor hears the rustle of fabric and the creak of bedsprings. For a moment, he thinks that Sherlock’s going to sit next to him, but Victor is again proven wrong.

 

“When?”

 

Victor looks at him. “When what?”

 

“When’s your flight?”

 

Sherlock’s standing in front of the wall that used to house a great number of the photographs Victor took. It’s now blank except for the few bits of tape still stuck to it. “The eighteenth,” Victor says.

 

“A bit of a rush,” Sherlock tells him. “Julian, right? Your father found out about his coke addiction. Must have happened somewhere with a lot of people. A party?”

 

“My father’s birthday, actually,” Victor says wryly. “He doesn’t just use. He _sells_ them. We’re going to stay in Los Angeles with my mother’s family. My father doesn’t think he should go to rehab. He’s scared that the media might find out.”

 

“I know.”

 

Victor’s about to drop it, to push the subject to the back of his mind once more when Sherlock continues.

 

“I knew about it,” he says. “About him being a dealer. There was a case involved and I got my lead from him.”

 

Victor stares at him. “When was this?”

 

“A year ago.”

 

“And you didn’t tell me.” Sherlock just stands there with his back to him. Victor grits his teeth. “You knew. You fucking knew and you didn’t tell me! Why?”

 

“What difference could you possibly have made if I’d told you earlier?” Sherlock snaps. “You would have just stood there and let him do it.”

 

“You knew!” Victor yells back. He’s standing now, facing Sherlock. “I can’t believe you’d keep that from me. You don’t have to tell me everything but when it concerns my family you shouldn’t hide it, Sherlock.”

 

He thinks about all the times Julian could have OD’d, about all the times he could have been locked up. Victor hates Julian, hates how arrogant he is and how he bullies him all the time. But when he thinks about his brother dying, he sees himself all alone in their huge house. Julian may be a twat most times but he understands what it’s like to live in the empty house, understands what his parents are like and how cold they always are. Victor never wants him dead. It’s selfish, but he doesn’t want to be the only target of their parents’ criticisms.

 

Sherlock breathes deeply. “You wouldn’t have done anything,” he repeats, his voice steady, almost convincing. Victor refuses to give in to it.

 

“This is why people think you’re so annoying,” he says. “You make assumptions all the time even though you don’t know a thing about human emotions, you fucking sociopath.”

 

It’s a step too far and they both know it. Sherlock looks away and Victor does as well. His mind tells him to say ‘sorry’ but his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. The word refuses to come out. The minutes fly by, until the time when the apology can still be accepted closes. Victor takes a deep breath.

 

“So why tell me now?” he asks.

 

Sherlock looks at him like he’s stupid. “Because you’re leaving.” There’s a strange edge to his voice, one that tells Victor not to listen to the words, but to the tone.

 

He understands it, then. And in spite of all the yelling they’d done, Victor laughs. Sherlock looks back at him. There’s a nearly imperceptible smile on his face. The laughter dies down until it leaves Victor serious and feeling like he’s older than his nineteen years, like he’s seen everything there is to see.

 

“You know what’s stupid?” he says. “When we were kids, even before we became—” He waves his hand, as if shooing something away. He has no idea what to call their relationship. Friends seems such a juvenile word to describe what they have. Commensalism? Ah, but they’re not exactly animals, are they? “Well, whatever it is we are. It’s kind of stupid that when we were kids I was the one who believed in all these romantic, happily-ever-after crap and you said you’d rather die than fall in love. And look at us now. You’re with John and I spend my time outside work and school analysing Barthes and reading about how love’s just this inane concept human beings made up.”

 

“I read that.” Sherlock’s eyes fall on the battered book sitting on top of Victor’s shelf.

 

“Of course you did.” Victor sighs and looks at Sherlock. “Should I say it then? Since I’m leaving?”

 

Sherlock says nothing. Victor says it anyway.

 

“I loved you, you know. _Loved_. I thought you were brilliant and funny and just—just freaking gorgeous. And you still are. I didn’t want to, of course, because you’re unavailable, even when I met you for the first time, but the thing is you can’t really stop it, I guess. I got over it because…Well, I’m not really sure. Maybe I woke up and realised that I’m fighting a lost cause and that you’ll never like me back because you have John. And even if you weren’t with him—I think you still wouldn’t have liked me in that way. Because you’re—you’re bloody annoying sometimes and it gets to me but I don’t do anything about it, not like John. I don’t fight back. That’s the problem.”

 

Sherlock nods. That’s all he does but Victor feels as if a great weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He sits on the bed and sighs, relieved. “Overly sentimental, huh?” he says. “I still think you’re bloody gorgeous by the way.

 

“Look, I’m not—I’m not an expert in relationships. But working as a bartender made me learn about all sorts of relationships. The thing is, you and John—you fit. But maybe you need some time apart for a while. You’ve been at each other’s side since you were six.”

 

Sherlock snorts and shakes his head. He looks disgusted with himself. “Look at me,” he says mockingly. “Acting so disgustingly human.”

 

“You are one.”

 

Sherlock scoffs at that. He looks at Victor’s coat, lying on a heap on the floor. “You should go to that party,” he says.

 

“How’d you know about that?”

 

“There’s practically no one here, there’s still a smudge of lipstick on your cheek, and you hesitated when you took off your coat, meaning you had somewhere else to go.”

 

Victor smiles at him. “You really are one of a kind, Sherlock Holmes.” He retrieves his coat and leaves it open. The stain stands out, shiny against the black material of his shirt. “You’ll be staying the night then?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

Victor bids him goodbye. At the threshold Sherlock speaks up again.

 

“You’re not the skull, you know.”

 

Victor smiles, shakes his head, and gently closes the door behind him. He takes out his phone and Lucy’s number then sends her a text, informing her that he’ll make an appearance shortly.

 

* * *

 

 

Because he comes not only from a large family, but also an affluent one, Sherlock Holmes has attended fourteen funerals in his nineteen years of living. He has hated every single one of them, and while he knows that he should be more attentive, that he should feel something other than boredom and irritation because this is John’s mother’s funeral, he cannot bring himself to do so. He doesn’t really mind the church service or the burial. It’s the part where the guests come to the house of the deceased that he hates.

 

He’s a selfish man. He’s always known that and he thinks that he always will be. But funerals make him more aware of how there are so many hypocrites in the world. Funerals make people selfish. They don’t think about the dead. They think of how they’re going to live without the person who died. Other people feel relieved that it wasn’t them, or that it wasn’t anyone they were particularly close to. And Sherlock despises the way they cry and talk to each other and eat the canapés being passed around. He’s never been an ethical man, either, but it seems quite rude to act so human when the person who died can never even do the most basic human things.

 

He and John haven’t talked since John pushed him. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other, as well. The whole time John was dealing with Harry’s coma, with his mother’s death, Sherlock was in the university town with Victor, until Victor finished clearing his things and left for Los Angeles.

 

“And where does John go?” Victor asked. “When you have a fight?”

 

He wasn’t asking about the flat. Sherlock knows who John goes to. Mike, Murray, Patrick. Sarah, his mind supplies nastily. The brunette is here right now, talking to one of John’s relatives. Sherlock’s never liked her, has always disapproved of John’s friendship with her. It’s petty jealousy but his mind just loves to remind him that Sarah was John’s first girlfriend, first sexual encounter, as well. He’s not very bothered by John’s past partners, but he does mind that Sarah and John stayed friends. The fact that she’s here makes it possible for John to go to her.

 

 _Maybe he did. Maybe when you were gone. It’s been a week. It would be harder to tell_.

 

He spots John among the sea of people. He looks good in his black suit and tie, his blond hair neatly combed for once. He’s shaking people’s hands, accepting their condolences with a curt nod and a tight smile. He’s both John and not John at the same time.

 

They meet each other’s gaze. Again, John’s anger surprises him, and, though Sherlock doesn’t like to admit it, it scares him a little. John glowers at him. What’s he done wrong this time? Sherlock tries to find a reason but he’s lost. He wants Victor, he realises, or his skull. But as John’s mate, he has to sit here in his stuffy black suit and pretend to share John’s grief.

 

“Are you alright, Sherlock?” Greg asks. He’s carrying Beatrice in his arms. Cedric’s seated next to Sherlock, fast asleep and drunk on the sweet punch they’re serving. “You don’t look too good.”

 

Sherlock dismisses his concern. “I’m fine,” he mutters. He keeps his eyes trained on John, watches as he disappears up the stairs. Greg follows his gaze.

 

“Sherlock,” he says, “I think you need to go up and talk to him. It’s been really hard for him…with his mum dead and Harry still in the hospital.”

 

 _He needed you and you weren’t there_. Greg doesn’t say it, though Sherlock can hear the words all the same. Greg would have done the right thing, Sherlock thinks bitterly. This time, Sherlock admits he’s at a loss. He’s not the type of person who comforts people. He always does the wrong things, just like Victor pointed out. He knows that staying away for a while was the right choice.

 

“You talked to him, then?” he says instead.

 

Greg shakes his head. “He doesn’t—He’s just different. His behaviour’s a little worrying, actually.”

 

“I’ll do it.”

 

Sherlock gets up and climbs up the stairs, to John’s room. There’s a feeling of dread but Sherlock pushes it away. This is John for godssake. He won’t hurt him. He’ll yell and probably break a few things but he won’t hurt him.

 

_He pushed you. You saw it, saw the way he looked at you._

Sherlock grits his teeth. _Stop it!_

John’s sitting on his bed, face buried in his hands, when Sherlock comes in the room. He looks up when Sherlock closes the door. He’s still angry. Sherlock can feel it. John knows how to shut him out, but Sherlock knows that this time, John’s not controlling himself.

 

“Was it nice, then?” John asks vehemently. The question throws Sherlock off.

 

“Was what nice?”

 

John narrows his eyes at him. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Shacking up with Victor maybe.”

 

For a moment, Sherlock just stares at him.

 

John thought he slept with Victor. John thought he cheated on him.

 

Sherlock can’t believe it. He’s not afraid of John anymore. He’s furious, absolutely livid.

 

“What do you think I am?” he snaps.

 

“I called you several times, Sherlock!” John yells. His voice is loud enough to carry downstairs. Sherlock hears the lull in the conversation downstairs. Then someone laughs and the murmur of voices continue once more. Greg, Sherlock thinks. Always saving the day.

 

“Just because I didn’t return your calls you already get it in your head that I slept with Victor?” Sherlock says incredulously. “You are an idiot!”

 

“Shut up!” John snaps. There’s an uneasy murmur downstairs but Sherlock ignores it. “What was I supposed to think, Sherlock? I called Greg, I called Mycroft, even. And he said you were going to stay there for a while. You didn’t even—I thought it was me, alright? I thought I scared you off when I pushed you and I’m sorry about that. But then you go running off to him!”

 

“I didn’t shag him!”

 

A sociopath, Victor had called him. He knows this is what people think and he doesn’t care about what they think because they don’t matter. But John’s opinions do and to have him saying those things…

 

“Sherlock, you—”

 

“I fucking love you, alright?!” He’s shaking now and it must be bad because the anger fades from John’s eyes and is replaced by shock. This isn’t how things should have gone. “I didn’t run off to sleep with anyone. I ran because I didn’t know what to do.  And I still don’t, John.”

 

This isn’t how things should have gone. But somehow, it’s John who’s holding him. They’ve ended up on the floor, Sherlock’s back against the door, John’s arms around him, holding him too tightly. Sherlock’s fingers dig into the space between John’s shoulder blades. John’s shaking as well and he keeps saying things like “I’m sorry” and “I love you” over and over again.

 

John pulls back a little. He hasn’t cried but his cheek is wet and when John’s thumbs brush over his cheekbones, Sherlock becomes aware of the slight stinging behind his eyes.

 

“What now?” he asks. His voice is disgustingly small, like he’s five again and seeking Mycroft’s help. Sherlock shakes the memory away. This is different.

 

John bites his lip then looks away, and Sherlock can already tell that things will be different.

 

“I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're messed up now thanks to me. John becomes paranoid of people leaving him and Sherlock has no idea how to act around John anymore. Why did I write this depressing thing? I will crawl in a cave now.


	18. It's All Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uni has begun and I, er, got into a bit of trouble with someone as I'm an agnostic who goes to a Catholic uni so...yeah, problems with an essay about your religious beliefs and I, uh, wrote about not believing in religion. haha, the nuns did not like that which is why it took so long to write. (able to walk free from any sins but now have a bad ass Samuel L Jackson reputation which isn't all that bad because I can now stitch bad ass motherfucker on my wallet).

_Sherlock,_

_I’m sorry. I’m drunk, I think, so I’m writing to you even though I know you’ll never reply to me. I’m not sure you’ll even read this beyond the first sentence, but hey, at least I can write, unlike the skull._

_Sorry again, bad joke. Thing is, I’ve spent nearly six months around alcohol but I don’t drink it much. I’m halfway through my third Jack Daniels and my head’s beginning to hurt a little. Must be that or the bright lights in this bar. I’m not in a strip bar if that’s what you’re thinking. Just this small bar in New York, the same one we sneaked into two years ago. You were right, by the way. The guy who owns it really was cheating with his mate. He’s got a new boyfriend now, youngish, even younger than you and me. The kid kind of groped me on the way to the loo. I’m not sure but they might be both cheating on each other. You’d be able to tell, of course._

_I know, I know. Get to the point, Victor. Well, I left them. My family, I mean. I think you were right about Julian—I can’t help him. And I realised my parents will never change, either. Mum was doing her socialite thing three days ago and I just stood there and thought that I’m sick of it, sick of this stupid, fake, posh life. So I just packed my bags and left without saying anything to them._

_So here I am, sitting in a bar, spending half my money on cheap drinks. I don’t have a plan nor do I have a place to stay. No, wait, I do have one for the night. His name’s ~~Avery~~ ~~Andy~~ ~~Anthony~~ Alex? I’m not sure, I’m kind of drunk. He models pants, can you believe that? Came up to me when he saw my camera. He thought I was a tourist so he offered his place. ~~I might sleep with him I’m not sure he’s kind of fit~~_

_I’m still not sure what I’m doing, Sherlock. There’s a part of me that wants to go back but I keep fighting it because I think that if I do, then maybe I’ll never get away from them. If my credit card doesn’t work tomorrow, it means they’ve probably disowned me. Funny, right? I’ll just have to stay with Avery/Alex and pretend to be a professional photographer until I can actually BE a professional photographer._

_How are you, anyway? How are things with John? No, actually, ignore that, you’re not even going to answer that. I’m just going to assume things are fine with you two. Not picture perfect but you know, good enough. Maybe ~~when I~~ if I come back, you’re already married and have kids, probably with weird names like Kasimir or Leonid or maybe even Amadeus (please not Amadeus). Nah, screw that, I can’t imagine you with kids._

_I forgot to give you these pictures. Most of them are from the cases you solved and some of them are the ones I took of you, the ones you threatened to burn but never really did burn because you always got distracted by a case. I don’t think Avery/Alex will like it if he sees it with my things._

_So good luck with whatever it is you’re doing. I’m just going to finish this drink, mail this, then possibly screw Avery/Alex later. I still don’t have anything planned, really. I’m just going to wing it._

_Victor_

The words don’t really register in Sherlock’s mind. It’s the letter that piques his interest, that and Victor’s spidery writing which has suddenly transformed in a large, loopy script. The words become shaky in the last three paragraphs, no doubt caused by intoxication. Beneath Victor’s signature is a yellowish stain that Sherlock sniffs and identifies as cheese. The paper smells of cigarettes (Marlboro) and a bit of the Jack Daniels Victor mentioned.

 

Victor is happy, Sherlock thinks. The happiest he’s ever been. Sherlock folds the letter carefully until it’s nothing more than a small white square, easily fitted into his palm. The skull stares at him from the bookcase, waiting. Sherlock slides the letter in one of the empty sockets.

 

Greg looks up from the pile of papers spread on the coffee table. He was asleep when Sherlock started reading the letter. Sherlock prefers him that way. “That’s becoming a bit creepy,” Greg tells him with a small frown directed at the skull. He yawns then rubs his hands over his face. “You got some coffee or tea here?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t answer him. He takes a seat on John’s ratty sofa, picks up one of the files, then pretends to be fully immersed in it. “Tea, coffee, anything with caffeine, really,” Greg mumbles but Sherlock continues to ignore him. Finally, he gets up and goes to the kitchen.

 

John hasn’t replied to any of his texts. Sherlock scowls at the screen of his mobile. None, not even something inane, something that isn’t related to Harry’s recovery. Sherlock’s eyes move to the wall clock as he sets his phone down. John is late. Again.

 

“He’s fine.” Greg’s leaning against the threshold, watching him. He has the chipped blue mug in his hand, the one no one, not even the guests, like. But John won’t throw it away because it was a gift from his mother. Will never throw it away, Sherlock corrects himself.  

 

“You don’t have to tell me that,” Sherlock answers sharply. _He’s fine, he’s not hurt, he’s fine._ Sherlock tightens his grip on the folder. He hates this, hates the worrying. This is what he dislikes so much about relationships. He can shut it, can force all thoughts of John to the back of his mind when he has to. But then he’ll encounter something stupid, something perfectly ordinary like tea (and not even very good tea), and he’ll think about John and how long he didn’t think about John so then he’ll worry even more and he can’t show it because it just isn’t like him to get worried.

 

Greg clears his throat. “Um, do you mind not strangling that folder? I have to give that back to Strednick.”

 

Sherlock looks at his hands. The pictures inside are a bit bent. He sets the folder down carefully after doing his best to set them to their original state.

 

“This is a one time only opportunity, you know,” Greg says a little unsurely, and more than a little awkwardly. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He clears his throat again. “So just…just try not to ruin the evidence.”

 

The whistle of the kettle saves them both from an awkward conversation. Greg raises the awful mug in a mock salute then disappears in the kitchen. The whistling stops and in the silence that follows, Sherlock hears the ticking of the clock, somehow louder than ever. Three minutes. Only three minutes have passed since he last checked. He reminds himself this but he looks, anyway. Well, four minutes.

 

Distantly, he hears the screech of tires, the sound of a car door closing. It could be John, Sherlock thinks. He fights the urge to leap out of his seat and move to the window. It wasn’t John ten minutes ago and maybe it’s not John now. He can’t damage the folder any further so he settles for digging his nails into his palms, the only sign that he’s tense, the one that no one but John will notice. If he even notices.

 

Greg is saying something in the kitchen, something about tea, but Sherlock can only listen to the slam of the front door, to the creaking of the stairs under John’s weight, to his footsteps which sound heavy and strenuous.

 

The door swings open. Sherlock stares at John, who just stands in the threshold, shoulders drooping, staring blankly ahead. This isn’t John, Sherlock thinks, not for the first time. He knows John, has known John since they were children, has known and hated him and loved him, sometimes at the same time. The John he knows has a laid-back demeanour, has the tendency to give his boyish smiles freely, has a penchant for telling stupid jokes while watching crap telly with Sherlock at his side, sometimes touching, sometimes not. The John who stands in the threshold is lifeless, almost a machine, really, and it is wrong on so many levels because it should be Sherlock who should act like an automaton, not John.

 

This isn’t John. This isn’t _his_ John. This is a stranger with John’s face, in John’s clothes, in John’s flat, and soon, maybe later, in Sherlock’s arms, holding him carefully but never crying, never visibly upset.

 

That’s the worst thing—the not crying.

 

“Hi,” John greets. The smile he gives Sherlock is too bright, and it disappears too quickly, almost as soon as when Sherlock looks away. He reads him through his peripheral vision, takes note of the stain on his shirt, and through it, learns that Harry had another fit and threw her drink at him.

 

It’s such a funny thing, grief. Beneath the thick layer of depression lies the selfishness, the denial, the thoughts and words, both of which leads to regret, because how can you ever be a decent person, really, when you shout at every other living person that it should have been you, it should have been you who died, it should be you who’s suffering right now. He hasn’t seen Harry since she woke up in the hospital, confused and not knowing that there was already one less member of the family. He’s seen John’s reaction, though, _sees_ it. And Sherlock hates it because he doesn’t know what to do and this John is so different, so distant, that he makes Sherlock nervous and edgy and he hates it hates it hates it because everything is so different.

 

Today was bad because John is sitting down next to him and he’s touching Sherlock carefully, his fingers brushing against his, asking without really saying anything. Sherlock doesn’t like this but he must, has to, because John is upset and Greg told him that John needs him right now. But until when? He doesn’t mind this, really, doesn’t mind John’s arms around his waist or his nose pressed against his nape, seeking comfort from his scent. What bothers is the thought that it might be like this forever.

 

“I need to fix you,” he says. Ah, should have been in a thought bubble.

 

John’s arms tighten around his waist slightly and Sherlock panics, but no, that can’t be because Sherlock _shouldn’t_ panic, just like how he _shouldn’t_ worry.

 

Greg, come back here, you imbecile, Sherlock thinks with a glare directed at the kitchen. He can just picture Greg leaning against the counter, waiting for them to be finished, all the while sipping tea from that horrible mug. He wonders what Mycroft does when Greg is upset, but it’s an image that refuses to be conjured. The only image he has of Mycroft comforting someone is of him as a seven-year-old, clinging to Mycroft, crying because some kids, some idiots, thought it would be fun to shove him against a chain-link fence and roughly cut his hair.

 

“I’m going to bed,” John says. He kisses Sherlock’s neck, right on the tiny, barely there mark where the needle went through thirteen years ago. A mixture of relief and a sense of abandonment wash over Sherlock as soon as John releases him.

 

Greg leaves the safety of the kitchen once John’s bedroom door closes behind him. “Bastard,” Sherlock hisses at him.

 

Greg shrugs. “He just needs some time to adjust.” He hands Sherlock his tea then sits down on the chair facing him. “His uncle’s helping with Harry and his other relatives are there for him. He’ll get over it.”

 

“What would _you_ know about it?” Sherlock mutters sarcastically. He’s never seen Greg depressed, not even when he was worried about having kids. Greg, Sherlock thinks, doesn’t know grief, can never know it because Mycroft’s always taking care of him, always making sure he’s alright even when he’s not there, physically. Mycroft always knows what to do, Sherlock thinks bitterly.

 

“You don’t know anything.”

 

Greg sets his mug down harshly, startling Sherlock. Tea sloshes over the rim, nearly hitting one of the forensic reports. “It isn’t always sunshine and daisies for me, Sherlock,” Greg snaps. “I don’t always go looking for Mycroft’s help.”

 

He picks up the mug once more, his hands shaking slightly this time. Sherlock’s eyes fall on the years-old white scar on the back of Greg’s hand, the one Greg never talks about. Sherlock has some theories on how he got it but he never brings it to light. Mycroft knows about it of course. Sherlock understands that it’s a story he’ll never get to hear, that it’s a Greg-and-Mycroft thing, and maybe this thing about John is only a Sherlock-and-John thing.

 

Greg can’t help him here.

 

“Maybe you should go to sleep, too. It’s quite late,” Greg says after Sherlock’s finished with his drink.

 

“No.”

 

“You’ve been reading that page for the past sixteen minutes,” Greg points out. Sherlock looks at what he’s reading and sees that Greg is correct and that he’s read the victim’s name ten times already.

 

Greg stands up and reaches for the folder. “You can’t help him much either,” he says. “You’ve been neglecting yourself.”

 

“I have not.”

 

“Did you even go to class today?”

 

No, he didn’t and he doesn’t have to because class is boring and his peers are idiotic, his professors even more and he needs to watch over John. He wants to tell Greg this but Greg’s now giving him that look, the one that reminds Sherlock that Greg is older than him and reminds Sherlock all too well that Greg’s also one of the many people who changed him and bathed him when he was a baby, so he’s not going to let this die down. Sherlock sighs and hands him the folder.

 

“Sleep,” Greg says firmly. He pats Sherlock’s shoulder fondly then leaves the flat. There is a bit of discomfort upon his leaving, a feeling of dread that Sherlock quickly swallows down. He is fine. John is fine. They are both fine.

 

He’s not tired. He’s exhausted and it can no longer be ignored. Sleep is threatening to pull him down but Sherlock struggles for a moment to make his decision. 

 

John would feel better if he slept beside him. But the thought of sleeping next to John doesn’t appeal to him today. Sherlock is aware of how wrong this is, and he truly is disgusted with himself, but when he thinks about sleeping beside him, he only gets that uneasy feeling, a feeling of suffocation. He’s not used to so much affection, and even with John, he still isn’t used to giving it. John needs so much right now.

 

Too much.

 

At the end of the day, he’s still quite selfish.

 

* * *

 

 

Five hours later, John wakes to the blare of a car horn, shockingly loud even three floors above ground. He wasn’t there when his mother died, but the sound of the horn makes him see it, the car crashing, the broken glass, _everything_. He sits up, his heart hammering in his chest, and for a moment he looks around the room, searching for someone, something to assure him that everything is fine.

 

Sherlock, he thinks, and with the name rises panic. There’s no one beside him and judging from how cold the sheets are, Sherlock wasn’t here at all. _Nothing’s wrong he’s fine you’d feel it if anything happened to him._ The anxiety refuses to fade away, however. John slides out of bed and pads barefoot to the living room.

 

Sherlock has fallen asleep in the sofa in a foetal position, half of his face bathed in early morning glow coming through the window. The anxiety lessens. John watches him sleep. He takes note of the rise and fall of his chest, but it isn’t enough so John finds himself putting a hand over Sherlock’s face, relief washing over him when he feels the warm breath against his skin.

 

 _I’m paranoid_.

He’s aware that he shouldn’t be so worried about Sherlock—that it will wear him down. That it’s _already_ wearing him down. Here he is at five in the morning, staring down at his mate and worrying about a tragedy that isn’t likely to happen in his shabby, tiny flat.

 

He has things to do, he reminds himself. He needs food for one thing and he needs to return those books he borrowed from the library. He can’t just stay here and stare at Sherlock forever, hoping that nothing bad ever happens to him because he can’t lose him, he just _can’t_. He’s scaring Sherlock already, though of course, Sherlock will never admit it. But John can tell. Sherlock slept on the sofa for godssake, when he could have easily slid into bed next to John.

 

It hurts a bit, but John understands. That’s him isn’t it? The guy who always understands, the one people come to for advice. He can’t continue to be like this. He has to act like everything is okay for Sherlock and Harry and for his mother as well. He has to act normal because Harry’s certainly not doing it and John understands that as well, because she was there and she saw. Her anger is acceptable, her anger and her denial and the hot coffee she threw at John because he made the mistake of thinking that she needed a shoulder to cry on. They are different in handling grief, him and Harry. John has known it since his father’s death, when Harry, at four had a tantrum right just as they were burying his father, and John, ever his father’s son, had merely stared straight ahead and told himself over and over again that he’s brave, his father needs him to be brave, to be normal.

 

Sherlock shifts in his sleep, turning away from John so that he’s now facing the back of the sofa. John wants to touch him but he clenches his hands and forces himself not to.

 

 _I need to fix you_.  

 

Sherlock is wrong. John needs to fix himself.

 

It’s far too early but sleep isn’t an option and staying in the flat won’t be good for him. He needs to get out, and that’s exactly what he finds himself doing.

 

It’s not just cold outside; it’s freezing and John regrets that he forgot his coat in his haste to get out of there. He’s not sure where he wants to go. There’s no exact destination in his mind so he finds himself walking down the near-empty street. The shops aren’t open yet and it is still cold, bone-crushing cold, so John takes refuge in a small deli. For a moment, he just stands there, wondering what the hell he’s doing in front of about fifty different kinds of cheese. Cheese has never held any fascination for him and if the sleepy man behind the counter asks him what he wants, John won’t know what to say because he just came here to get warmed up. The deli really is quite nice and toasty, the kind of temperature that reminds him of his childhood home. It’s a sad memory, but at the same time, it’s quite nice as well.

 

For one brief moment of insanity, John wonders what the cheese think about in their nice and toasty wax paper beds.

 

“John?”

 

John turns around and sees Sarah looking at him curiously. She’s dressed in a big coat and scarf. Her clothes make John feels ridiculously naked in his thin shirt and last night’s jeans. “What are you doing here?” she asks. John feels that he should be the one asking what the hell she’s doing in this deli at six in the morning with a wheel of cheese in her arms.

 

“Taking a walk,” he answers, forcing himself to sound casual. “Looking at cheese. You?”

 

“That guy behind the counter? His name’s Rodrik and well…” She falters, blushing slightly. “He lets me take whatever I want before eight—the time when his dad comes in.” They both look at the sleepy cashier who seems more interested in plastering his face against the counter than at Sarah. “I kind of craved some cheese.”

 

John smiles a bit. “We’re talking about cheese. At six in the morning. How strange is that?”

 

It should be funny. It is meant to be funny and before, before the accident, Sarah would have found it amusing. But now she’s looking at him in concern. “Are you sure you’re alright, John?” she asks. It must be the cheese, John thinks. Maybe you shouldn’t joke about cheese.

 

“Me? I’m fine.”

 

That’s what he should have said, anyway. But there’s something about girls that makes you want to tell the truth to them all the time. Perhaps it’s the strangeness of not being surrounded by testosterone-filled male Alphas who refuse to talk about feelings. It is, John thinks, one of the advantages of having a male Omega for a mate. There are no complicated conversations and there are seldom requests for affection or expensive gifts and, dear god, no use of words such as ‘cuddle’ or its cousin, the very disgusting, very uncomfortable ‘snuggle’. Conversations like these should be avoided but John needs it right now, needs it because there is no one else to talk to, especially not Sherlock, and so John finds himself saying that no, he’s not fine, and that he feels a little bit depressed, actually.

 

They don’t talk in the deli. John is escorted to Sarah’s tiny flat, just a block away from the cheese haven. The flat smells of flowers and clean laundry and the Alpha part of John’s brain tells him that nope, this place is dangerous. He promptly tells it to shut up because it is nice and comfortable to sit on Sarah’s cornflower blue armchair, squished beside an enormous stuffed giraffe while drinking too-sweet tea in the daisy-printed teacup she hands him. He can feel disgusted with himself later.

 

The tea is delicious.

 

“Did you fight with Sherlock?” Sarah asks as she takes a seat in the similar very Alpha chair across John’s. John marvels at the worry in her voice. He cannot remember much of what happened between him and Sarah as they only had one drunken night and later, one failed date, so she doesn’t count as an ex, really. But it’s still strange for him that she’s so worried about how things are going between him and Sherlock. Perhaps it’s a girl thing, and Sarah always did say that she finds the idea of pre-bonds romantic. Or perhaps it’s just a ‘you’re my friend and I’m going to take care of you’ thing. Bill and the others certainly like showing their support.

 

John fears they might have even made a fan club.

 

“No,” John replies, “we’re not really okay, I guess, but we didn’t fight? I mean, there wasn’t any shouting or anything.” He takes a sip of the tea. “I think I’m just kind of a wreck and Sherlock doesn’t really know what to do with me right now.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Girls are good listeners. John knows how girls work, thanks to spending years in a household full of girls. It doesn’t matter what their secondary gender is. They like to listen to you and secretly, John thinks, think about how pathetic you are, and there’s nothing you can do about it because you need to let out whatever it is that’s bothering you and the only people who’ll willingly listen are girls. Girls and bartenders. Sarah is looking at him with concern, her face showing him that she’s paying attention and that she really does care about what he has to say. She might be thinking something else but that doesn’t bother John. As long as she pays attention, it’s good.

 

John shrugs. “He wants me to get better but it’s like he’s fighting with himself. He’s not affectionate and I guess he just feels weird when I, you know, hug him or something. I’m suffocating him and at the same time, he’s forcing himself to be with me even though he doesn’t really want to. I don’t think he went to any of his classes this week.”

 

To John’s surprise, Sarah looks like she wants to hug him and treat him like a stuffed animal, namely the giraffe beside John. “That’s so sweet,” she says in a dreamy voice. John nearly spurts tea all over her. “He’s worried about you but he doesn’t know what to do. That’s so cute.”

 

John gapes at her. “This isn’t a Disney movie, Sarah. I’m paranoid. I keep thinking he’s going to get hurt or—or—just…just get hurt. And it’s not right. And Harry…I don’t know what to do with her anymore. My whole life’s just different and I need to fix this. I need Sherlock to stop worrying about me as well and I just can’t tell him because he’s stubborn and he’ll never stop. I need…I need a distraction.”

 

* * *

 

“Seriously?” Caroline Mayhew mutters. “I can’t believe they still need more.”

 

Standing next to John, Mike Stamford does the job of rolling his eyes for both of them. John allows a small smile to come to his face. Even while he’s immersed in this small bout of depression, John’s dislike towards Caroline Mayhew is still present. It is childish, this dislike, but as Mike and practically half the med students in their year loath her presence, John feels that it is perfectly acceptable to act like a child.

 

Caroline is arrogant. John does not really have a problem with arrogant people—he’s romantically attached to one. But there is a difference between Sherlock’s arrogance and Caroline’s. Sherlock isn’t boring. Caroline, however, is. And frankly, her voice is quite annoying.

 

“What is it now, Carol?” Mike asks. His tone is polite but John can tell from the forced smile on his face that he’s faking it.

 

“This!” She points at one of the papers on the bulletin board. “The army’s searching for new recruits. _Again_. I mean, people are just using it as some excuse to play with guns. And another thing…”

 

John tunes her out. An idea has formed in his mind, a stupid, crazy idea that slowly, slowly becomes reasonable as he stares at the piece of paper before him.

 

“…would be better if the government just stop butting in other people’s business, really,” Caroline finishes with one last look of contempt directed at the flier. Mike mutters something under his breath that she doesn’t hear and that John doesn’t catch.

 

“She thinks she knows everything,” Mike says once they’re out of earshot. “She’s clueless.”

 

“Yeah,” John says, though Caroline Mayhew is the last thing on his mind, “she’s pretty clueless.”

 

* * *

 

 

Since Harry hit puberty, John has never felt comfortable in the presence of his younger sister. To be more specific, this discomfort began when Harry, twelve at the time, strode in John’s room and demanded that he get his arse out of bed and buy her a bra as their mother was too upset with the idea of having her little girl grow up.

 

The thing about being a male med student is that it makes you wonderfully aware of bodies. The thing about being a male med student with a younger sister is that it makes you horribly aware of bodies and of certain people who want to explore his little sister’s body. It makes you protective, fiercely so, to the point that you lose all the camaraderie you built when you were younger. John wonders sometimes if Mycroft thought the same about Sherlock, only at a much earlier age. The CCTVs are enough to tell John exactly how protective Mycroft can be.

 

But as John looks at his sister, that instinct to protect is replaced by a feeling of helplessness. Harry isn’t looking at him. She has her arms crossed over her chest, her face turned away, eyes focused on a blurry photograph of Uncle Lloyd and his wife. John can see the angry red scar on her temple clearly, and the sight of it brings on a fresh wave of guilt. He wants Harry to scream at him again, like last time, because the screaming is familiar, strangely enjoyable, even. The silent-treatment is what John hates because it can mean anything.

 

He wishes he's not here right now, but he has an obligation to Harry, and what kind of brother would he be if he doesn’t visit her? But even as he sits on his uncle’s overstuffed  armchair, all he can think about is that he’d rather be elsewhere. He longs for a drink, but that’s not good. He longs for Sherlock, and that definitely isn’t good.

 

The idea interrupts his thoughts once more. He thinks of what Bill told him, of that feeling of independence, of that adrenaline rush he realises he longs for. He looks at his sister and thinks, _I can’t help you_.

 

He wonders what his father’s reason was. Something more noble, he thinks.

 

“I think,” he says, “I think I might want to follow in Dad’s footsteps.”

 

* * *

 

It is madness, but at the same time, it is reasonable, healthy. At least, this is what John tells him. “It’s for both of us,” John says and Sherlock wants to laugh because he never agreed to this. But he finds that he can’t speak, that his throat has suddenly gone dry. There’s a strange feeling in his chest, and it _hurts_ , so much that for a moment, Sherlock has to concentrate in regulating his breathing. The lull in John’s speech tells him that he lost control for a moment, and that John felt that weird feeling as well.

 

This isn’t the best place to have this conversation.  John is such an idiot. They’re in the same Greek restaurant where Mike sought his help a year ago. It’s not packed but there are people close by, people who can hear what they’re talking about. They don’t know Sherlock, and Sherlock doesn’t know them, but he doesn’t want them to look at their table and think _another couple breaking up with each other_. There­­ is an itch in his throat that refuses to go away, no matter how many times he swallows hard. He fills a glass with water and takes a drink, but the rim misses his mouth so that the front of his shirt ends up getting soaked.

 

“Careful.” John lays a hand on his arm. Sherlock jerks away.

 

“Don’t.”

 

There’s worry there, worry and exasperation and what hurts more is that John looks more like his old self at the moment. Sherlock glares at him before he drops his eyes and focuses on drying his shirt with a few tissues. “Sherlock,” John says, and Sherlock grits his teeth because he really doesn’t want to hear him talk anymore. “Sherlock, do you understand what I’m saying?”

 

His shirt is hopeless and now there are bits of tissue clinging to the material. Sherlock throws the tissues on the table in frustration. “I’m not an idiot,” he snaps, still refusing to look at John, “we’ll go to a doctor in the morning if that’s what you want. Break the bond. Then you can run off and—”

 

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

 

“Obviously, it is. Now will you just—”

 

Beneath the table, John steps on his foot lightly, a contrast to the hand on Sherlock’s chin, forcing him to look, really look at John. His fingernails are biting in his skin and Sherlock wants to pull away, but John’s grip on him is strong. “That’s not what I mean,” John says calmly. The tone of his voice irritates Sherlock. As he stares into John’s face, all he feels is betrayal and self-hate, because maybe he didn’t do things right, maybe it’s because he wasn’t there enough. Maybe he is too irritating, too mean, and maybe this is why John is leaving.

 

“You know that’s not what I mean.” John repeats, still in that calm voice. His hand is cupping his cheek now, his thumb grazing over the ridge of his cheekbone. “You know that I love you.”

 

Sherlock glares at him. Those are just words and they’re words he doesn’t like. He’s not the first one between them who said those words, but he’s certainly the first one who meant to say them. And he hates that he said it first and he hates that John’s telling him this now.

 

“Fuck you,” he mutters. It’s a first, too, and John, startled by the words, drops his. People aren’t looking, but Sherlock feels that they are. He looks around the room, and beneath the anger and betrayal there is panic. _Have to get out, need to get out_. The words run in his mind until they turn real. He pushes past a waiter, making the man stumble slightly. Someone swears at him but Sherlock doesn’t care. John is calling him but he doesn’t care either.

 

Sound of shoes on the pavement, fast, running, and then John’s hand around his elbow, holding him steady. “Please,” he pants, his face flushed from running, “just…just slow down, will you? You’re misunderstanding me.”

 

Sherlock purses his lips but he nods and allows John to pulls him in the dark mouth of an alley, away from the prying eyes of passers-by. They’re not alone, though. A skinny boy approaches them, an empty Styrofoam cup in one hand. “Spare change?” he asks.

 

John glances at him. “What? No, I don’t have—Just go away for a while, will you?”

 

The boy is persistent, however. Sherlock stares at him until he recognises the grimy face beneath the hood of his baggy jacket. “Riley, go away,” he orders. The boy looks at him, scowls, but obeys. And finally, finally they’re alone together. Sherlock wishes for a moment that he hadn’t sent Riley away because now it’s just him and John and it doesn’t make him feel good. In fact, he feels a bit sick, a bit tired, and all he wants know is a distraction.

 

“You knew him?” John asks, trying to keep things light-hearted. “The kid, I mean?”

 

“Homeless network.”

 

“Good. We won’t get mugged then, right?” He tries a laugh but Sherlock doesn’t reciprocate. In the dark alley, it falls flat, dead, and a heavy silence replaces it. John’s hands are on his upper arms now, there but not pulling him in, as if he’s merely assuring himself that Sherlock isn’t going anywhere.

 

“I’m not breaking up with you,” John says. “I just…I just think that it’s a good idea if we’re…we’re separated for a while. I mean, I’m going to do my own thing and you’re going to do you’re crime solving.”

 

“It’s unnecessary,” Sherlock answers even though he knows that it’s best if he keep silent.

 

“It is. It will help with the hospital bills—”

 

“We have money. You know that Mycroft will help—”

 

“I can’t accept that. No, it’s wrong. It feels wrong. And—well, there’s us.”

 

“Me, you mean.”

 

“Us,” John repeats. “Me. I’m…I just worry about you a lot and it’s wrong because I’m taking up too much of your time and you—you’re letting me do it even though you don’t want to. We’re dragging each other down and I think…I think maybe that’s what we forgot…when we got together. To trust each other, I mean. And we haven’t really learned how to be without each other…and—and you have to admit, Sherlock, that we’re not always going to be there for each other because someday…well, you know what’s going to happen. So this…this is good for us.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “I irritate you.”

 

“You do. But that’s not it. And Harry—”

 

“You’re scared. Of the responsibilities.” Sherlock bites his lip. He doesn’t feel hateful anymore but he also feels that he has to be. “You’re a coward,” he says without real vehemence.

 

John looks at him sadly. “That’s part of the reason, too, I guess,” he admits.

 

“You’re not going to change your mind?”

 

“I’m a Watson. I’m stubborn.”

 

“You are.” He presses closer. John allows him, his arms automatically encircling Sherlock’s waist. “You’re an idiot.”

 

“I am. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I just love you. A lot. Too much, sometimes. It scares me a bit.”

 

John releases him. “Will you let me, then?” he asks. His eyes are pleading but Sherlock can’t say yes, not yet, and his only answer is to press his lips against John’s forehead and to tell him later, maybe, he’ll have to think about it.

 

* * *

 

From where he’s sitting, John can see Sherlock facing that skull of his, his back to him. He’s reading something, John thinks, and the thought is confirmed when he hears the rustle of a sheet of paper. When he turns around, though, he’s empty-handed. The skull grins at them knowingly, and John has the fleeting thought of getting up and making it face away.

 

Sherlock sits on the sofa beside him, his hands clasped together. He’s so close that John wants to put an arm around him, but he fights it, knowing that Sherlock will only feel uncomfortable if he does so.

 

“You won’t go away immediately, correct?”

 

John nods. “Bit more training at Bart’s, then in a few months somewhere else.”

 

“Not London.”

 

“Not London. No.”

 

“You won’t get shot?”

 

“No. I’ll be a medic. I won’t be in the frontlines.”

 

“You’ll come back?”

 

Sherlock’s mouth trembles, the only sign that he’s not as composed as he wants to be. John puts a hand over his, seeking permission, and when Sherlock doesn’t push him away, John leans in and kisses the side of his throat. “Always. You know that.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Yes?”

 

Sherlock nods.

 

"You have to come back, though." Sherlock looks at him, eyes bright. His hands find John's shoulders, nails digging into his skin. He presses his forehead against John's until all John can see is the pale blue colour of Sherlock's eyes. It's somehow more intimate than sex, than a kiss, so John presses closer until there's just a sliver of space between them. "That's all I ask," Sherlock says, voice shaking slightly. "You always come back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was the hardest chapter to write. Will now go to sleep for seven hundred years.
> 
> Three more to go, one with Mycroft, one with Sherrinford, and an epilogue. Well, four, if you count the end notes. (Oh god, it's nearly done, crying because finally).
> 
> If you guys are wondering if Sherlock will ever get into drugs, I'm omitting that because it just doesn't fit in this universe. If they broke up, yes, maybe (?), but they're still together. John's just going away to learn how to be his bamf-self in canon.
> 
> The story behind the scar on Greg's hand will appear in Venn Diagram, the second part of this. About the cheese...sorry, I was listening to Blur and my mind jumped to Alex James and his cheese farm so...cheese?


	19. Unravelling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features one of the oc's, Luke Rochewell from Chapter 10. 
> 
> It's been so long, I'm sorry, but uni was just...ugh. My midterms are finished though so I have a lot of time in my hands.

“Is that normal? That’s not normal, right? Well, I wouldn’t know, but…That’s just weird. Is it weird? Because I’ve never heard of that happening. But then there’s television. And I can’t exactly consider him normal…but still. Pretty weird.”

 

Greg does his best to glare. He does, honestly. He’s good at giving mean looks. He’s been trained to do it, but Luke Rochewell does not know how to apply the word ‘subtle’ to daily life. Also, it’s not easy to glare at a face full of piercings. The rings and studs that adorn Luke’s skin makes Greg’s right eye twitch in discomfort.

 

 _You can kill someone with that face_.

 

He looks over his shoulder. Sherlock’s eyes are narrowed at Luke but thankfully, he just walks out of the room, the phone still pressed to his ear. Greg hears him mutter the word ‘idiot’ and can’t help but agree. Luke has always been an idiot. It’s not that he’s stupid when it comes to academics (there is absolutely no need to mention that small, heart-stopping fact that Luke graduated with one of the highest marks in his class, just a little below Greg). However, when it comes to common sense, well, it’s probably safe to say that when God handed out common sense to the human race, Luke was either asleep or shagging some unfortunate being.

 

“What?” Luke says incredulously, his eyes widening to make him look a bit like a dumbfounded fish. Greg fights the urge to wrap his hands around his neck and strangle him. You’re not kids anymore, Greg reminds himself. Luke deserves it sometimes but it’s no longer socially acceptable to tackle him to the ground and roughhouse until Luke—hopefully—sees his mistake.

 

“You’re not allowed to make any comments about Sherlock’s relationship with John.” Luke opens his mouth to protest but Greg beats him to it. “You are to sit there and not say anything stupid because it will take us all day. Sherlock hasn’t slept properly in weeks and you really do not want to antagonize him further. Again, do not mention John. And as for me, I’m quite exhausted as well. A crime was committed, Luke. _A crime._ ”

 

Luke blinks at him. Then he opens his mouth. “Sherlock’s the one having a cheery conversation with his boyfriend. And you’re the one scolding me. There’s something wrong with this situation. You should be telling Sherlock not to talk to John. Or you should be scolding John for calling Sherlock. Who shouldn’t even be here in the first place. He’s not a detective, right?”

 

Greg wants to hit him. But the other officers are present, although no longer within hearing distance, not after Sherlock gave them the evil eye. “Luke,” Greg grits his teeth. “ _FOCUS._ On the—on what happened. You’ll catch up with Sherlock’s social life later.”

 

Unfortunately for Greg, ‘focus’ is another word that Luke doesn’t apply to life.

 

You’d think a somewhat popular TV presenter would know how to listen. You’d think a somewhat popular TV presenter has impeccable social skills. But the thing about Luke is, well, he’s _Luke_. He’s a bit like Sherlock, really. There’s no malicious intent, unlike with Sherlock who does his best to degrade every person he deems unworthy to be in his presence, but his ignorance is just as dangerous. Greg has no idea why people love Luke so much. Then again, Luke’s audience consists of teenagers and uni students who find Luke’s jokes hilarious. Idiots, basically.

 

“I’m the one who went abroad and came back to find a dead guy in my flat,” Luke whines. He tugs the orange blanket tighter around his body for emphasis. Greg quickly removes the image of him suffocating Luke with it from his mind. “See, I’ve a blanket. I’m in shock.”

 

“That’s not the point,” Greg mutters, massaging his temples. It’s quite ironic that he’s having more difficulty communicating with his twenty-seven-year old cousin than with his five-year-old children.

 

“But—”

 

“Okay, okay. What you said was really mean.”

 

“All I said was that maybe John got sick of handling Sherlock. Isn’t that the reason why he’s in the army?” Luke says loudly.

 

Greg’s eyes dart to the others. Sally Donovan glances at them. “Luke, shut up.”

 

“But what’s the reason? Come on, Greg, I’ve been away for months and I haven’t seen much of you either. That was meant to be a joke. Is it my fault the kid can’t take a joke? Oh, wait, he’s never been good at taking jokes, anyway. Now I remember why I didn’t hang out with you much when we were younger. He was a bit of a possessive bastard wasn’t he? The antichrist. You know, he threw a rock at me when I caught them snogging in Mycroft’s backyard.”

 

“Wait, when was that—“ Greg cuts himself off before Luke can respond. _Case. Focus._ “It’s none of your concern, alright? Just keep quiet for a moment.” To be honest, Greg doesn’t understand it much either. John’s leaving, he means. Mycroft’s not okay with it, of course, which pisses Sherlock off because Mycroft’s taken overprotective to a whole new level. But John’s been away for two years and their arrangement seems to suit them both. Luke and his big mouth just had to ruin Sherlock’s good mood. (Greg does his best not to think too much about how his good mood happened. Being happy about seven mutilated bodies found in different private homes in London is not something one should be ecstatic about.) “Just…just tell me again what happened.”

 

Luke nods and finally, finally, Greg sees in his eyes that he’s making an effort to see how serious the situation actually is. “Okay. So I got home and I was—well, _am—_ beat tired from that fourteen-hour trip. So the flat smells all musty, you know? Since no one’s been there for ages. So I didn’t think it was weird that it smelled kinda rusty. So I took a shower, changed my clothes, then I didn’t really wanna crash yet so I played some music, danced my arse off to your Joy Division album, the one I stole from you ha ha.”

 

Greg looks up from his notes, startled. “Wait. What?”

 

“Nothing. Anyway, shook my arse, ate some canned beans, then I was all tired. Took off my clothes since that’s how I sleep.” Luke ignores Greg’s look of disgust. “Opened the bedroom door and what do you know! There’s some hobo crashed on my bed. Scared I was. Nearly pissed myself that there was this guy in my bed and I was in my birthday suit. I grabbed the nearest thing which was that ugly vase your mum sent me then threw it at him. Bloke didn’t move so I went closer and saw that he’s well, pretty much not alive. Which made me piss a bit so apologies to the forensic guy working in my bedroom.”

 

“Okay, and then you called?”

 

Luke shoots him a glare. “Nah. I hit him some more. Of course, I called you, fucking twit! What else was I gonna do? Look at some dead guy until all the piss got drained out of me?”

 

Sally stares at him then whispers to Greg, “Is he serious? Are you sure he’s not joking?”

 

“Sally, if there’s one vital thing you should know about Luke is, serious isn’t part of his personality.”

 

Sally looks at him disbelievingly.

 

“He was dropped on his head when he was a baby,” Greg explains. “A lot of times.”

 

“Oi!” Luke yells, nearly leaping out of his chair. “That’s only half true! At least I never pissed in front of the whole class unlike a certain someone I know. That show and tell was _really_ frightening, Greg.”

 

Greg nearly chokes on his own spit. “Stop it,” he hisses once he’s gotten control, “or I’ll leave you here to rot.”

 

“You won’t do that. Because deep down—deep, deep down, you love me. You can’t get enough of me since I’m so awesome.”

 

“I really love your modesty,” Greg mutters. “Now focus. Please.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I heard that. Who said that? I’m going to kick his arse when I get back.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t bother to fight the urge to roll his eyes. “It was just Luke. This case I’m handling, the one with the surprise corpses? He got dragged in—unfortunately for those questioning him.”

 

“Luke? Luke from when we were kids? Greg’s friend? He’s a dead man,” John growls menacingly. It’s a voice that would scare even his commanding officers. There’s a part of Sherlock that’s thrilled with this display. But since that’s the part of Sherlock whose main concern is for John to bend him over the table and fuck him hard, he disregards it. The more rational part of him points out that this display of possessiveness is, while not exactly unhealthy since it’s perfectly natural for John to act like this, a bit annoying. He doesn’t need protecting. Hell, he can beat _John_ in physical combat.  

 

“John.”

 

“I’m just—”

 

“Defending my honour? The last time I checked, our age gap was three years, not four hundred.”

 

There’s a slight huff at the other end of the line. He can almost see John’s face, his lips pursed and his brows furrowed as he thinks. Sherlock _wishes_ he could see John’s face, not just in his head. He refuses to dwell on that. “It’s just—I worry about you, alright?” John finally says. “And I don’t like what they say.”

 

“It’s—”

 

“It’s not okay because they’re talking about you and I don’t like that, Sher. And I don’t like that you don’t care about that, either. That’s not—”

 

“Normal,” Sherlock mutters. He hears the bite in his voice but he doesn’t regret it. It’s freezing out here and he doesn’t want to go inside yet because of the sheer stupidity of the people there. He’s quite positive they hate him back. It’s not as if he cares about what they think. As long as they let him solve a few cases, he’ll act civil.

 

Well, mostly civil. If they don’t talk too much that is.

 

John doesn’t answer but Sherlock can feel the guilt rolling off him in waves. That’s the strangest thing about their little arrangement. Even with John at the other side of the world, Sherlock can still feel how John feels. It’s…nice. But also a bit bothersome, because John will suddenly be affected by something while Sherlock is working. And Sherlock will panic because he’ll think about John getting shot and John, feeling Sherlock panic, will panic as well because he’ll think about Sherlock getting hurt. So every Thursday, the only time they’re allowed to call each other, the usual good manners are damned (though in Sherlock’s case, there have never been any good manners). The conversation, if it can be called that, will begin with John frantically asking him if he’s in any danger, to which Sherlock will reply with an annoyed answer, all the time suppressing his relief that John’s unharmed. It is, Sherlock thinks, quite fucked up. It is, however, quite normal between the two of them. Strangely romantic, even.

 

Not that he uses that word.

 

John sighs. He sounds tired. A bad day, Sherlock thinks. He’s learned to tell—John’s voice is just as expressive as his face. Someone got hurt then, a friend of John but not a close one. If there’d been a death, John wouldn’t have called.

 

“I called at a bad time, didn’t I? Should I hang up?”

 

“No!” A woman walking a dog raises her eyebrow at him. Sherlock ignores her. He hasn’t heard John’s voice in a week. He tightens his grip on the phone, moving away when two constables exit Scotland Yard and pass by him.

 

“Okay, okay, I won’t,” John murmurs soothingly. “Still here.”

 

“In a sense.”

 

“So,” John begins awkwardly, “how was, er, how was last week? I was…sorry about that. I was indisposed.”

 

Sherlock shrugs before remembering that John can’t see him. Should have brought the laptop, he thinks. “Same as always. You weren’t there.”

 

“But, things will be different this year, right? Once you turn twenty-one, we can, er, you know.”

 

Of course, Sherlock _knows_. His whole family _knows._ Mycroft, especially. It really is no wonder why _every_ CCTV camera in his current location swerves in his direction. It’s also not surprising that Mycroft’s been talking to John via phone call. John won’t say but it’s obvious what they talk about. Him.

 

If Sherlock finds out Mycroft’s threatening John again with the whole _if you break his heart, I’ll murder you myself and feed your mutilated body to sharks_ Sherlock is going to kill the fat bastard.

 

“I mean, that is if you want to. Er, it’s—You know this is really awkward and ironic for me because I can talk about this with other people but when it comes to you, well, I, uh—”

 

“Turn into an eighteenth century gentleman,” Sherlock finishes. John laughs and Sherlock grins at the sound.

 

“I suppose that’s a yes,” John replies. “Sorry, can’t help it.”

 

“When are you coming home anyway?” He fails at trying to hide the eagerness in his voice. Disgusting.

 

“Three more months,” John says softly.

 

 _Too long_. He doesn’t say it but his silence speaks for himself.

 

“I know,” John tells him, “It’s sooner than you think.”

 

“I don’t miss you.” It’s a blatantly obvious lie but John doesn’t point it out. _I miss you. I miss you a lot. I know you like it there but I want you here. I miss you, I miss you, I_ love _you._ “I really don’t.”

 

“Really?” There’s an amused note in John’s voice. “Whatever you say, gorgeous.”

 

There’s a wolf whistle in the background, followed by a joke about John flirting again. Again? Sherlock feels something unpleasant coil in the pit of his stomach. What does he mean _again_? It’s a joke, he tries to assure himself. It’s nothing, just a stupid joke. But jokes have some basis of truth to them. But John wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t cheat on him, surely. Would he?

 

“Stop it. Your mind’s going a mile a minute again.”

 

“I wasn’t—”

 

“You forgot to shut me out,” John chides and Sherlock curses himself for being so ignorant.

 

“He called you something,” Sherlock mutters. Again, he curses himself. That wasn’t supposed to come out.

 

“What—Oh, that? It’s nothing. Just an army joke. Come on, what is it? The Three Continents thing, that’s…that’s really nothing. It’s—”

 

There’s a dull thud followed by a scuffle. And then a voice, not John’s, yells, “Don’t listen to him! He’s cheating on you!”

 

Bill Murray, Sherlock thinks, and the guess is confirmed by John growling his name menacingly. Bill yelps. It’s either John kicked him or stepped hard on his foot. Sherlock suspects that it’s the former. “Sorry,” John says once he’s got the phone back. “Bill’s being an utter dick. What he said, that’s not true. Trust me?”

 

 _He won’t. He’s not like that._ “Yes,” Sherlock says without a trace of hesitation in his voice.

 

“Good. I love you.”

 

 _Say it back!_ He’s only said it once, only meant it once, that is, and his timing was awful. It’s been two years, but he remembers yelling it at John. _I fucking love you!_ Well, that had been romantic.

 

There’s a slight pause, meaning that John’s waiting for it. He always does that, always waits for three seconds before he hangs up.

 

“John, I—”

 

The sound of raised voices brings the rest of his sentence to a halt. Sherlock turns to glare at Greg and Luke, the two of them still arguing even as they’re descending the stairs that lead to Scotland Yard.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Later, John,” he says and hangs up before John can say anything more. He has all the time in the world to say it back. What he doesn’t know is if John has all the time in the world to wait for it. Sherlock hopes he does. No, that’s not right. He knows John does.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft watches the slightly grainy image of his brother closely. The screen of his monitor shows Sherlock stepping out of the cab, pausing at the front door leading to his flat to wrap his scarf more securely around his neck. It’s John’s scarf, Mycroft notes, the ratty blue one which Mycroft has tried so hard to replace with something more suitable.

 

There’s a knock on the door. Mycroft turns off the monitor as soon as the door swings open.

 

Greg looks exhausted. There are bags under his eyes and he’s a shade paler than usual. Mycroft gives him a quick once over, taking note of the coffee stain on the front of Greg’s shirt, of another stain near the cuff of one sleeve.

 

“You should eat a more substantial meal. Less than half a sandwich won’t keep you on your feet for much long.”

 

“And you’re the expert in healthy eating, aren’t you, Mycroft?” a voice pipes out. Mycroft already knows who it is. He can smell him, the dark Alpha scent of him, combined with the smell of cheap cigarettes and expensive cologne. A sardonic smile greets him. “How’s the diet?”

 

“I’m sorry,” Greg mouths He leans down to fit his mouth against Mycroft’s. The kiss is soft, tender, and seemingly apologetic. Mycroft hears Luke make a displeased sound in the background but neither of them acknowledge him. “He’s staying with us for a while,” Greg explains. “I’m sure you already know why.”

 

“I do.” Knowing does not mean that he likes it. It’s not that Mycroft hates Luke. Mycroft Holmes doesn’t ‘hate’. He…disapproves of Luke. He disapproves of Luke being the bad influence in Greg’s life, he disapproves of the drinking and the tattoos, and he disapproves of Luke’s opinion on what he has with Greg. Luke’s not afraid of him and Mycroft sure isn’t afraid of Luke who, despite being just as tall as him, weighs just as much as Sherlock and also has the kind of limbs that look like they can be snapped into two with your bare hands. But Luke knows things about Mycroft. Not blackmail, nothing like that, but things that tell too much about Mycroft, things that can change how people, the unimportant ones, see him.

 

Greg hovers for a moment, no doubt wondering whether or not he and Luke are going to fight. Luke’s eyes are narrowed at him but Mycroft gives a small shake of his head, darting his eyes quickly at Greg. Luke’s shoulders relax and he nods, smiles even. Mycroft can’t promise that they won’t argue because they’ve done it as kids and they’ve never grown past that. It would be strange if they did. But they can postpone it long enough until Greg leaves the room.

 

“Right,” Greg says, obviously relieved. “I’ll go and check on the kids. You know where the guest room is, right, Luke?”

 

“Sure, sure.” Luke waves him off. Greg pauses at the threshold. He opens his mouth to say something, but stops himself and is out of the door before either of them can ask about it.

 

“Well!” Luke exclaims, clapping his hands together. “This is rather awkward.”

 

Mycroft shrugs. He doesn’t become awkward, either, but the situation is, indeed, awkward. Luke leans against a bookshelf and stares at him. “You know I’d really rather crash at a friend’s place but Greg insisted. Said I’d get arrested. Again. It’s not my fault I was there during a drug’s bust. I didn’t even know Vanessa was shooting up.”

 

“And these explanations are necessary because?”

 

Luke huffs in frustration. He’s serious now and Mycroft has to admit, Luke Rochewell is good at hiding his emotions. “We’re not fighting,” he says, “at least not while I’m staying here and they get rid all traces of that dead guy from my flat. It’s just I saw Sherlock and—God, Mycroft, you’re so fucking judgemental, alright? It’s no wonder I constantly want to slam my fist in your face.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You. Now—Just now, I mean.” Luke crosses his arms over his chest. “I know I screw up all the time. I’m _meant_ to screw up all the time. I’m famous for that. It’s just annoying that you’re always glaring at me when I’m with Greg, like—like if I so much as breathe on him, I’ll hurt him.”

 

Mycroft scoffs. “This sudden burst of emotion was triggered by seeing my brother. I don’t speak your language, Luke.”

 

“Yeah, because you’re a posh git.” Luke glares at him. “I see it in your face—you blaming me for what happened. And I know I wasn’t a perfect guardian to Greg, then. And I saw Sherlock and, well, you’re not very good at your job, either.” Luke’s eyes fall on the ring on his finger, not the one that tells people he’s married to Greg. It’s the other one, the one he’s been wearing since John came in the picture, the one Sherlock hates so much because it shows that Mycroft’s overprotectiveness doesn’t just come from being his older brother. It’s a duty, an old one, one that Luke did before Mycroft bonded permanently with Greg.

 

“Sherlock’s fine,” Mycroft says coolly, bringing his hands to his lap in order to hide the ring from Luke.  

 

“No he’s not. It’s not about John. It’s…he looks bored.”

 

“Sherlock’s always bored. A mind like that needs to be occupied constantly. I didn’t pull enough strings to let Sherlock solve cases for Scotland Yard just for nothing.”

 

Luke shrugs. “He seems like he’s on autopilot or something.” Mycroft begins to protest but Luke cuts him off. “Listen, I’m not Sherlock’s sentinel—that’s you. But I’ve been Greg’s and I’m still Greg’s even though I’m not wearing that ring anymore. You were always yelling at me because I always got Greg into trouble. But we had fun. We were reckless but Greg enjoyed it—well, up until that night but that’s…we’re not talking about that. You’re being too...too _you_ when it comes to your brother. Let him breathe a little.”

 

“The boy was hit by a car and nearly raped when he was fifteen.”

 

“All I’m saying is I think you’re doing it wrong. Sherlock’s Sherlock. He takes care of himself.”

 

“And I think your opinion is not of any value in this house.” Mycroft scowls at him. “If you may be so kind as to leave this room, Luke?”

 

Luke stares at him disbelievingly. “God, you’re still a git, Mycroft,” he says. “I honestly don’t know what Greg sees in you.”

 

“I recall you said we weren’t going to fight.”

 

Luke bares his teeth at him like a wolf. “We didn’t,” he says mockingly before closing the door behind him quietly. For some reason, it feels worse than if he’d slammed the door. Mycroft scowls and tries to go back to studying a file, though the gnawing feeling in his stomach that Luke may have made a bit of sense refuses to go away.

 

* * *

 

“You’re a cheeky little bastard. I knew you never gave it to him. That much is obvious.”

 

“He’s always asked. Until John, of course. He got…distracted.”

 

“How insulting. So why? Why now?”

 

“He’s not a child. He’s turning twenty-one in a few months. I’m not going to be his guardian for much longer.”

 

“Oh come on! We both know you’re not going to stop protecting him.”

 

“You’re not exactly a threat.”

 

“Your sense of humour is quite fascinating, little brother.”

 

There is no response.

 

“Fine, fine. I’ll entertain him for a few days. I have business there, anyway. Besides, there are papers to take care of. Properties, inheritances, that trust fund. Father’s always so forgetful when it comes to him.”

 

“Don’t start.”

 

“Too late.” A woman walks by, smiles at him. He smiles back at her charmingly. Full of potential, he thinks. Oh yes. She’ll do well.

 

“Sherrinford?”

 

“Next week perhaps.” The woman eyes him coquettishly—he already has her. He’s already thinking of where she’ll look prettiest. Bedroom or living room? He smirks. “I have things to take care of,” he adds before he hangs up and goes to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason why Luke and Mycroft dislike each other is in Venn Diagram.  
> The sentinel thing is explained in the second chapter of the second part of the series. I suppose the real world equivalent is a best man. It's an explanation to why Mycroft wears a ring on the wrong hand.  
> Sherrinford is shaped to be a bit like Moriarty, a less insane version of him.


	20. The Charmless Man

The odd feeling that something is off refuses to disappear, even as the train pulls into the station. Sherlock has done his best to rationalise that nothing is wrong, apart from having dinner with Mummy and Mycroft, which, although strange and unwelcome, is not exactly unfamiliar. He tugs the loose strands hanging from John’s scarf for a while before he catches himself. The thing is already falling apart due to a number of mishaps, one of them being that time the scarf got stuck to the revolving doors of a hotel thanks to a constable’s idiocy. The thought of taking it off crosses his mind but it’s quickly dismissed. 

It’s not sentiment, dear god, it’s definitely not that. It’s colder here than it is in London and thanks to an experiment that went wro—an experiment that he’d… _miscalculated_ , his only coat is the old one that’s worn thin from having been washed too many times. It’s not his coat, either. It’s John’s, the brown one that smells like the odd combination of stale beer and tea, and which is a bit too short for Sherlock’s arms. He pulls the sleeves down but they keep sliding back up, leaving his wrists exposed. Oh well, it’s still able to serve its purpose. He’ll just have to ignore Mycroft’s taunts for choosing to wear John’s clothes.

It’s just dinner with his family. Given the chance, Sherlock would avoid it altogether but as cases in Scotland Yard are connected to Greg who is connected to Mycroft, , and due to the fact that the more trustworthy of his homeless network is pillaging god knows where, he has no choice but to go through it. He hasn’t seen his mother since last Christmas and that was, while not disastrous, not enjoyable. It was...it was quiet. Awkward, rather. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t do awkward. Awkward is so disgustingly human, therefore situations that call forth awkwardness should be avoided as much as possible. He’s had enough awkwardness as a twelve-year-old, thank you very much.

Sherlock shoves his hands deep inside the pockets of his coat, slumping further down his seat in a weak attempt to get warm. The two girls seated across him (twelve-year-olds, first time, vacation, grandmother, most likely) giggle as they take pictures of each other with a cheap-looking camera. 

He would tell them to shut up but it’s too much of an effort. Besides, the train is already beginning to slow down, signalling the near end to hours of torture. He wonders what Mummy will say to him this time. He wonders if Mummy will even say anything to him. 

It doesn’t matter, he thinks. You shouldn’t care.

He sighs, makes the mistake of looking up, and is momentarily blinded by the flash of a camera.

_“Smile.”_

_John’s beaming at him. It’s a smile that ought to be infectious, basically the kind of smile that makes the person wearing it look like an idiot, and for some reason, seeing it makes you want to look like an idiot as well. Smiles like that should be banned. People are idiotic enough already._

_“Sherlock,” he says and damn it, he’s pressing his fingers between his ribs. Sherlock can already feel the laughter building inside him but he fights it off. He’s not ticklish. He’s not. Definitely isn’t ticklish._

_John puts the camera down, raising his hands in a dangerous manner. “Smile or I’ll tickle you.”_

_“Don’t you dare!”_

_John cups his chin, leans forward, and nips at his bottom lip. Sherlock wants to push him away. He’s doing an experiment, he doesn’t have time for this. “John, stop, I’m doing something,” he manages to say. “John, stop…” That last one has other words attached to it but John’s mouth is now against the hollow of his throat and Sherlock’s thought process has a tendency to trail off into nothingness when John’s doing that—_

_Pfftt!_

_“John!” Sherlock yells, shoving him off. “Disgusting!”_

_John’s laughing. “It was just a raspberry. Sherlock? Don’t be like that. Look, I won’t do it again.”_

_“You’d better—”_

_Pffftt!_

_Sherlock withdraws his hand. “You’re spending the night on the couch tonight,” he warns as he wipes the back of his hand on the front of John’s shirt._

_“Unfair. You don’t even sleep.”_

_“The bed isn’t just for sleeping, John.”_

_“We haven’t used the bed in ages. The kitchen table, though. That’s another story. There’s also the shower and who can forget the walls? There’s also the floor but neither of us appreciate carpet burns. There was that time at the windowsill which should never be repeated again, Sherlock, and I’m pretty sure that wasn’t an experiment—that was just your unreliable libido. Let’s see. The couch as well and against the front door. The bed has a lot of competition.”_

_A small smile appears on Sherlock’s face. John takes advantage of the situation and snaps a picture of him. “It’s for when I leave!” John yells when Sherlock tries to take the camera from him. “A remembrance.”_

_Sherlock sobers at the words. “Also bragging material,” John jokes. “So they can see I have someone gorgeous waiting for me.”_

_Sherlock blinks at him. “John, you’re still not getting a leg over.”_

_“I’m only telling the truth.” He cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and plants a chaste kiss on his temple. Sherlock wants to lean into the touch but his experiment still needs to be finished and while being wrapped around John is nice, it’s still cuddling and he doesn’t do cuddling._

_“Hey,” John says, and Sherlock knows immediately that there’s something more to that ‘hey’. A ‘hey’ like that is dangerous, a signal that a serious conversation is about to begin. There is no escaping it. He sets his scalpel down to show that he has John’s undivided attention._

_“I want to give you this.” He pulls out a white envelope from his pocket, wrinkled and creased in the middle, tell-tale signs that John’s been holding on to it for days. Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek. He knows what it is._

_And he doesn’t want it at all._

_“If anything happens to me—”_

_“Don’t.”_

_“Sherlock, I said ‘if’.”_

_“John, please.”_

_He doesn’t want to think about that because it’s not going to happen. It’s unlikely. There are stray bullets, he knows. There are ambushes and accidents and no one can help John when he’s half a world away, not even Mycroft. But it won’t happen, it won’t._

_John stops talking but he’s come closer and Sherlock finds himself being drawn into a hug. He should stop this. But John is warm and solid against him and the experiment is beginning to seem unimportant what with John’s lips against his neck and his hands pressed between his shoulder blades so that all Sherlock can focus on is John John John—_

“Take another one!”

“Stop fooling around—We’re going to be late!”

One of the girls laughs before being pulled out of the compartment by her friend. Just as well, Sherlock thinks as he rubs his eyes. He’s not exactly heartless, but he’s not above shouting at prepubescent girls who think it’s alright to take his picture.

The platform is crowded but Sherlock spots Mycroft’s newest assistant easily. They change every week and they change names every day. The only things they have in common are their love for gadgets, they’re all female, and they’re all (to Greg’s annoyance) highly attractive. Where Mycroft finds these girls is a mystery to Sherlock, and not one he wants to solve. 

“Who’s driving?” Sherlock asks as Kendra/Kelsey/Katherine escorts him to the car. “Ah, no, don’t tell me. That’s Mummy’s car. It’s Rowan, then.”

It’s a short drive to the manor which is just as well. Kendra/Kelsey/Katherine pays absolutely no attention to him during the drive. Rowan tries to make small talk but Sherlock ignores him. He’s asking about John. People always ask about John. It’s not that Sherlock doesn’t have anything to say about John because John tells him everything, even the things he doesn’t say out loud, the things Sherlock can read just by listening to the tone of his voice. It’s just that he’s not exactly willing to share John.

 _Possessive._ Sherlock sniffs at the voice. _So what?_

_It’s not normal._

_Normal’s boring._

“Here we are,” Rowan says cheerfully, interrupting Sherlock’s thoughts. The door is opened for him and his bags taken care of. This isn’t unusual. What’s unusual is that the manor feels like a ghost town. Sherlock’s eyes wander to the gardens but he sees no sign of old Jules or the other gardeners. How strange. 

He looks up, his eyes catching a flash of red. The curtains hanging over the window of Father’s office are drawn tightly shut.

That’s never happened before.

* * *

“You look lovely, Violet,” Sherrinford says cheerfully, giving his mother a charming smile. “How are you?”

“Very well,” she answers, startling Mycroft. He didn’t expect her to answer and he certainly didn’t expect that the answer would be accompanied with a smile. It’s a smile that doesn’t say anything, and Sherrinford, perhaps sensing that his mother won’t be easily perturbed, drops the grin on his face. Mycroft does his best to hide his own smile. His mother raised Sherlock and him. What did Sherrinford expect?

“Well, that’s good to hear.” He’s seated behind Father’s desk, nibbling at the end of a pen. There’s something child-like about Sherrinford. It’s the nail biting and the need to tap his fingers on any available surface, the alarming addiction to sweets (not even Mycroft, no matter how many times Sherlock says it, can stand that much sugar in one cup of tea). It’s not an act, which makes him all the more dangerous. People have numerous layers to their personalities. What makes Sherrinford different is that you know, just with one glance, that you’re asking for a death sentence if you try to explore these layers.

Sherrinford doesn’t say anything more. He just sits there, a slightly forlorn look on his fact that Mycroft is quite positive is an act. His mother stands up and Mycroft follows her out the room. 

She shakes her head upon seeing his expression. “Honestly, Mycroft,” she chides. “I’ve known about him for years. He’s harmless.”

Mycroft scoffs at the word. Sherrinford isn’t harmless. He’s one of them; he’s dangerous. “Are you staying for dinner?” he asks, though it’s not the question he wants to ask. Does his presence disturb you? Is this a horrible idea? I can ask him to leave. Do you want me to? 

“I said he’s harmless. I didn’t say he won’t try to annoy me. No, Mycroft. I’ll wait until Sherlock gets here then I’ll be off.” She lays a hand on his arm. “Be careful, though.”

“He won’t hurt him,” Mycroft answers readily. “He has no reason to.”

“Oh, no, Mycroft. Of course he won’t. What I’m worried about is that Sherlock may not dislike him. He might even look up to him.”

* * *

Father is seated behind his desk, dressed in a charcoal suit and white silk tie. He smiles at him and Sherlock balls his hands into fists, willing himself not to show an obvious reaction. Inside, he’s panicking. Just one look at Father’s face and he remembers so much, the darkness of the closet, the screaming, the disapproving stares. He feels the urge to come forward and slam a fist in the man’s face, feels the urge to yell abuse. He feels the urge to run.

“No ‘hello’s? Rude boy, didn’t they teach you manners here?”

The voice is a slap to his face. American accent, husky, not as deep. Sherlock looks at him and sees the differences—hair brown instead of auburn, skin less pale, a wider mouth, jaw more defined. But the eyes are the same, cold and calculating with a hint of mirth. They’re Father’s eyes. 

They’re Sherlock’s.

Mycroft’s standing a few feet away from the desk, lips pressed in a tense line. He puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he steers him to one of the chairs facing the desk. “If you say anything—” he starts but Sherrinford rolls his eyes, putting a stop to the rest of Mycroft’s sentence.

“I won’t. I’m not going to bite the kid’s head off.” He stands up with a flourish, giving Sherlock a small frown. “Oh dear. You’re awfully skinny. I thought you said you were taking care of him, Mycroft.”

Mycroft bristles. “I’m not a pet!” Sherlock snarls before his brother can answer. He can sense a fight threatening to fall over them. “Mycroft, leave. And you. Stay behind that desk. You smell awful.”

Sherrinford makes a show of lifting an arm to take a deep sniff. “I showered. Must be the cologne.”

“It’s what you’re trying to hide under the cologne. You smell of sex.”

“Good nose,” he says, approvingly. “I didn’t participate if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’d rather not think about it.”

Mycroft’s watching their exchange carefully. He’s still tense. The hand gripping the back of Sherlock’s chair tells him just as much, as if Mycroft’s getting ready to pull him away just in case Sherrinford says or does something that Mycroft thinks will hurt him. Sherlock reaches out to lightly scratch his fingernails against the back of Mycroft’s hand. Go, get out. I’ll be fine.

Mycroft hesitates, then pats his shoulder. With one last warning glance at Sherrinford, he exits the room, leaving Sherlock alone with his brother. Half-brother, his mind supplies. Person I share a large portion of my genetic make-up with, he thinks again as Sherrinford continues to study him. Sherrinford’s not his brother, not in the way Mycroft is. He’s not Father, either. He’s a stranger, an outsider, and it’s obvious that Mycroft wants him to remain that way. But he’s one of them. Sherlock tries to gather information about him but he finds nothing he can hold against him. Just like with Mycroft.

“Your brother invited me,” Sherrinford says as he slides back in his chair. “We have a lot of things to discuss. You have another trust fund, land, some other things. Not his, by the way. Your grandfather’s I think, things he forgot to hand to you. There’s a violin around here somewhere, and well, I don’t know what this is but it looks expensive. You’re a smart boy; you can find some use for it. As a paperweight maybe or—”

“He’s dead.”

Sherrinford sets the small box in hand down and shrugs. “Is he? Ah, I wouldn’t know. Father and I haven’t been in contact for ages. He gets bored, terribly bored. But you have to hand it to him. He takes care of things, albeit a bit late. Besides, does it matter if he’s alive or not? He’s been dead to you for a long time.”

Sherlock scowls. It doesn’t but he wants to know. “He’s always hated me,” he mutters. 

“Well, you’re a spoiled brat,” Sherrinford says matter-of-factly. “I’m not saying that he loves you. He doesn’t love Mycroft and he doesn’t love me, either.” Sherlock stares at him disbelievingly. “Oh, I’m his favourite, that’s for sure. But the only person he really loves is my mother, to the point that he’s become rather obsessed with her. Come to think of it, that’s not love. That’s just his psychopathic disorder getting the better of him.

“I don’t have it, if that’s what you’re thinking. Mycroft wouldn’t let within ten feet of you if I did. I wish that I do have it, sometimes. It’s a good excuse to act insane. It’s not a good excuse to hurt your children, though. That’s inexcusable.” 

Sherlock looks away. “I did throw his lithium tablets once,” he admits, “before I knew what they were for.”

“See? Spoiled brat.” He grabs a chocolate biscuit from the plate before him then pushes the rest to Sherlock. “Eat. You’re far too thin.”

Sherlock doesn’t move.

“It’s not _poison_. Well, to you. I’m dreadfully allergic to peanuts. One bite and I’m dead. Your mother has a gallows humour.” He takes a bite, chocolate smearing on the corner of his mouth. “Does that make me more human, less intimidating?”

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s an advantage to me.”

“You know my weakness. Shocking, right? Peanuts.” He laughs as if he finds the idea of himself dying is humorous. His eyes drop to the front pocket of John’s coat. “Would John’s death shock you?”

Sherlock instinctively tugs John’s coat tighter around himself. He hears the envelope crinkle inside the pocket. _Joking, he’s joking._ Still, his heart refuses to slow down. It must show on his face because the amusement in Sherrinford’s eyes dies and gives way to what Sherlock thinks must be disappointment.

“You’ve a chink in you armour, Sherlock, and it’s blatantly obvious. Don’t make John a weakness.”

“He isn’t,” Sherlock snarls.

“You’d better work on hiding it.”

Sherlock makes a face. 

“Oh you’re adorable,” Sherrinford teases. “If you weren’t under Mycroft’s protection I’d snatch you up.”

“Snatch you—“ He stops, eyes widening slightly when he realises what Sherrinford means. The smell of it on him, but not enough, and he did say that he didn’t participate, that he was just a spectator. “That’s your network,” he blurts out. “Whores.”

“Harsh. They prefer the term call girls-slash-boys but a spade’s a spade. Your network consists of London’s, er, less fortunate. Mycroft’s consists of politicians. That’s something we have in common. We all have people to do our bidding. And according to my sources, you’ve built yours at such a young age. I’m so proud of you.”

Sherlock ignores the last. “It’s no wonder Mycroft despises you.”

Sherrinford groans dramatically. It’s all for show, like he’s doing his best to make Sherlock feel more comfortable around him. “Is it my fault that his people can’t sleep alone in their beds for one night? It’s amazing what secrets come out when you’re just that desperate. I have to hand it to Mycroft, though. He knows how to fight. His assistants are absolutely lovely. Look-but-don’t-touch, the kind of girls that leave you hanging and wanting for more. Ah, I shouldn’t talk about this to you. Forbidden topic. Not that you don’t know about sex. Really, the way Mycroft shields you.”

“All this time,” Sherlock says angrily, ignoring the jibes, “you’ve been keeping yourself hidden because you like pissing off my brother? The skull, the meeting in the airport. That was just to rile him up? You two are just as bad as each other.”

“He thinks I’m a bad influence so it’s partly true. About the hidden part…” Sherrinford grins. “I’m the family secret. I’m supposed to stay that way. Bastards don’t have a place in aristocratic families such as yours.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and Sherrinford raises his hands in a placating manner.

“Not a sob story, I promise. I’m better off than you two in terms of power. See, I’m unattached and I want to remain that way. I don’t have a family like Mycroft and I don’t have a John, like you. Thank the gods I never had to go through that pre-bond thing.

“You’re not weak. Not by a long-shot. I can tell just by looking at you. But you have limits and that’s good, really. You have people to care for you and protect you.”

Sherlock grits his teeth. “I don’t want to be protected. I’m not a child.” He glares at Sherrinford. “That’s why you’re here, right? The documents, the inheritance. Mycroft could have taken care of that. What did he tell you? That I need more CCTV’s watching me. That I need someone to look out for me when I’m outside his range?”

“Connections,” Sherrinford says calmly. “I can offer them to you if you need them. I’m not going to protect you unless you ask me directly. I’m not your brother, I’m not Mycroft. I take care of myself. I came here to offer you entertainment in the form of cases.”

Sherlock’s ears perk up and despite himself, he leans forward slightly. “They’re not like the cases you handle in Scotland Yard,” Sherrinford tells him as he produces a few thick folders. “Your access there is limited, especially since it’s on Lestrade’s head if anything happens to you. I’m sure they’ll take you seriously after some time but not right now when you’re still too young. And no offense, Sherlock, but you look like a twelve-year-old.”

Sherlock picks up one of the files. “These are homicides,” Sherlock mutters. “They’re just the same.”

“Not this one. You’ve stopped death from happening, haven’t you?”

“Obviously.”

“But I bet you’ve never ensured it to happen.”

* * *

“He’s delightful. But rather rebellious. I can see why Father disliked him so much. He doesn’t exactly know when he’s crossed the line, does he?” Sherrinford tells Mycroft. The two of them look at Sherlock who is still seated in his chair, reading the files in his hands at an alarming speed. The barely touched food in front of him has long gone cold. 

“He seems to enjoy your company,” Mycroft says tersely as they make their way out the dining room. Sherrinford detects jealously and anger in his voice but this time it’s not directed at him. _All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy._ Sherrinford smiles to himself. He should have been here long ago. 

“He enjoys the cases I brought him,” Sherrinford answers. “You baby him too much.”

“Clearly, you don’t know how to raise children,” Mycroft answers. “Yes, Sherlock isn’t a child but he has the curiosity of one. He needs to be watched over. Constantly.”

“You make him hate you. How _fun._ ”

Mycroft clicks his tongue. “You truly see being irritating as a form of entertainment, don’t you?”

“Careful. I’m nine years your senior.” Sherrinford doesn’t know how to raise children. He does, however, have children. How many, he’s not quite sure. A bastard spreading bastards. It’s a bit funny, but of course Mycroft can never see the humour in it. Sherlock does, though, even managing a light chuckle when Sherrinford told him this. Oh god, he does love annoying Mycroft. He doesn’t hate Mycroft. He likes him, respects him, even. He knows his job and he knows how to manipulate people and Sherrinford likes that. He’s always loved nonconformists and Mycroft and his little brother are just that, albeit different kinds, Mycroft being the subtle one and Sherlock being the loud show-off.

“I’m not stealing him from you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he adds. “He’s your brother, not mine. Besides that, I wouldn’t know what to do with him. His being charming would probably wear off and I’d just forget him. Nah, he’s your problem. If he does run into trouble, though, and it’s too much for you to handle, just give me a call. Traditionally, as the eldest, the two of you are my responsibility.”

Mycroft glares at him. “I handle things quite well.”

“I helped you, didn’t I?” Sherrinford points out and this time, this time Mycroft crumbles and he averts his eyes, embarrassed.

“I didn’t even know it was you,” Mycroft confesses angrily. “I thought it was just the family name.”

Sherrinford laughs. “You can’t become that powerful without someone to drag you in.”

“You did.”

He cracks a smile. Honestly, Mycroft is just so funny. “Horrible childhood. Father’s not the only parent capable of hitting children. Combine that with a resentful mother, being a bastard, growing up in a bad neighbourhood, and the guilty conscience of a man willing to please the woman he so loves. Vain man. He only likes me because I look like him. Good thing my network’s American. My very existence ruins your family’s integrity.”

Mycroft grimaces. “I assume you won’t be staying long, then?”

“I’m leaving the cases to Sherlock. They’re a gift. All the information he needs is there already. I have business to attend to then I’ll be out of this country at the end of the week. It was a pleasure to see you again.”

“It’s certainly been interesting. Good night, Sherrinford.”

Mycroft shakes his hand out of politeness. He squeezes once, in warning, and Sherrinford tries not to laugh. _You only hate me because you owe me._ Sherlock likes him now, or if not ‘like’, then he’s fascinated by him. He’ll grow to hate him, just like Mycroft. Not now but in the future when Mycroft isn’t careful with him.

* * *

Ewan Reed does his best to suppress the smile that’s threatening to split his face into two but fails and ends up with a shit-eating grin that the other lads find disconcerting. Little Johnny glares at him. “Don’t,” he warns, and while the voice is stern, the faint blush on his cheeks tells Ewan that he’s off soldier mode already.

“It’s funny,” he says and John (Little Johnny in his mind and possibly everyone else’s) glares at him so dangerously that Ewan is positive that if they were still in Afghanistan, he’d be punched endlessly. Well, at least until the threat of doing some serious damage arose. 

Afghanistan isn’t just a different country, Ewan thinks as his eyes fall on the other soldiers who are trying their best not to look awkward by slapping the back of each other’s heads. It’s a different world, a world where it’s acceptable to act like you’ve got less than half the brain of a normal person, because out there you’re dead men walking and dead men walking can act like idiots because it’s the only way to keep yourself sane. This isn’t just his thought. It’s a fact, it’s something that gets ingrained in your mind on your first day at boot camp when you meet your drill instructor for the first time and get showered in saliva and words like _bitchcunt whoreson motherfuckingcocksucker_ until all you can really hear is a faint buzzing.

Ewan’s been serving longer than John and he’s the one who laid out the rules him, right after they doused him in cold water and told him he’d just entered hell. “When the sharks are out, you don’t have a name. You’re just someone who follows orders and you don’t disobey. Ever, not unless you want your arse whipped. I can’t promise you that your arse won’t get whipped, though, because we get bored and you’ll come to enjoy it anyway. You eat what you get even if it looks and tastes like it’s been swimming in the toilets. There are girls and boys here near the base but some of them are off grounds so before you pick one of them up, ask me first. We have condoms here but not much so use them wisely. You’ve got a medical background and I’m sure you don’t want to bring the clap back to the Queen.”

John gave him a blank look. “I’m with someone,” he said simply. 

“You’re a posh git, ain’t you? Pre-bonds. They’re only for old money families.”

“I’m the exception, I guess. He’s rich. I’m not.”

“Well it doesn’t matter because you’re going to want to get laid and what your boyfriend doesn’t know, won’t hurt him.” John glared at him. “I’m just saying the truth. Some of us have got girlfriends and boyfriends here. Some of us are even bonded. And we sleep around, fool around and the people we left, they know about it because sex is just friction, Johnny boy, it helps release tension, and there’s no emotional attachment whatsoever. Basically, it’s all fine.”

John, quiet little John Watson, though, holds true to his word which amazes the platoon. He’s not a good-looking bloke. Not bad, of course, but not exactly someone who’d turn your head around. But he’s a favourite of the locals and when they’ve got enough free time to go out and have a drink, it’s always John who attracts people’s attention. It’s probably because he’s one of the younger guys and something about his small frame and crooked grin just screams fresh meat even though Ewan knows John Watson’s not someone you’d want to mess with. What’s annoying is they can see he wants it—hard not to when you haven’t gotten laid in months—but he never does anything to reciprocate people’s advances, always using that excuse that he’s got someone back home, someone who Ewan thinks might be doing the reverse of what John is doing and is currently screwing John’s best friend or brother or maybe even a random passerby. That’s what his old girlfriend did and that’s what Mark’s husband does and that’s what most soldier’s someones do because sex is just sex and it’s not important until you screw up and either get pregnant or get someone pregnant.

Ewan’s never met John’s boyfriend or fiancée or mate or whatever term they use. Pre-bonds confuse him. Murray has since Murray’s known John before they stepped foot in Afghanistan, and according to Murray, the bloke’s a posh git. He’s seen a picture—hell, they all have and it was Murray’s fault, the bastard stole it from John’s bunk one night causing all of them to feel like kids being scolded by a parent when John yelled at them. The kid’s gorgeous, not Ewan’s type, but definitely the type of some of the guys and well, John certainly wasn’t too happy when, the next day, some jokes were started about having a go on John’s bloke. There was an idiot who’d gone too far. His teeth went far as well.

There are rules in the army, the ones all soldiers have to learn. There are rules in each platoon as well, the stupid ones they make up to keep things smooth between them: don’t drink anything Murray offers you, no stealing of magazines, no complaining when roughhousing, and no insulting John Watson’s bloke, not even for fun.

Ewan’s one of the guys who’s not attached to anyone at the moment. He’s a spectator in the airport. He’s seen some of them reunite with their families and partners and it’s both a strange and slightly frightening experience. How ironic that they’re invading Afghanistan and he finds looking at people frightening. But he sees these men and these boys as soldiers and in his mind, they don’t have people waiting for them, and this glimpse of what their lives really are is astounding. He has yet to see John’s, though, and John, seeming to know what he’s waiting for, grumbles and asks him if he’s going to leave anytime soon. 

Ewan wants to see this, wants to see John’s guy because he wants to know if he’s worth it and if he’s not, well, Ewan can’t promise he won’t get a punch there because John’s a good lad and he deserves someone who doesn’t screw around.

Funny that Ewan spots him first. Murray was right—he is a posh git. Anyone with clothes like that screams money. “Is that him?” he asks, nudging John none-too-gently. “That skinny guy with the funny hair.”

John turns to look. Ewan wishes he’d brought a camera just to show John what he looks like. “I’m guessing that’s him,” he says but John gives no sign of having heard him. He grins but fixes his expression to a more serious one when the bloke walks toward them. 

He’s much taller than John and younger than them, though not by much. He doesn’t even glance at Ewan and the look he gives John is far from happy. “You’re late,” he says, sounding quite displeased, as if John did something to delay their flight. Ewan raises his eyebrow. Jesus Christ, this the guy John loves so much? He seems awful.

John shrugs, not seeming to mind his treatment of him. “You’re still here.”

“I don’t have a case at the moment.”

“And I’m not in Afghanistan.”

The guy’s face softens and the corners of his mouth lift to form a small smile, a smile that Ewan’s sure isn’t supposed to be viewed by anyone other than John. John’s smiling back, and something just clicks, something in Ewan’s brain just goes ‘oh’ as he looks at the two of them. He doesn’t understand, not really, but he gets that he’d best leave these two to each other. He raises a hand to clap John on the shoulder as a form of farewell, but John doesn’t seem to notice. When Ewan looks back, he sees that they’re still standing there, not touching at all, but somehow managing to look more intimate than the rest of the couples surrounding them.

Love, Ewan thinks with a shake of his head. He says goodbye to his companions and some of them say goodbye as well. They’re not soldiers now; they’re just like other people and it feels weird, kind of, that other people can’t see that. A large Christmas tree looms in the distance and as Ewan Reed stares at it, he wonders if something interesting will happen this Christmas. He has friends to spend it with and a few family members but he doesn’t have what the other guys have, what John has. He looks over his shoulder one more time and sees John and his partner talking with their heads bowed low, still in a world of their own. To some, it certainly will be interesting. He grins at them both.

Lucky sods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's another chapter after this one which is an epilogue, and after that are my notes and other stuff. I leave gaps in this story. They're to be filled in Venn and in the third part.


	21. An Epilogue of Sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiiiinaaaal <3

The first thing John thinks when he opens his eyes and sees the broken lampshade, the bedspread on the floor, and what appears to be the remains of a radio, he thinks there’s been a burglary. The moment he rolls onto his side and collides into someone warm, slightly angular, and very much naked he dismisses the thought and instead, remembers last night’s events.

 

“I think we destroyed most of the flat,” John says. He tries to sit up to inspect more of the damage but is brought down by Sherlock who insists on wrapping his gangly arms around John to slowly squeeze him to death. Normally, he wouldn’t mind this. But the thing is they’re on the floor, and well, John remembers that they were nowhere near the floor last night. Rather, he remembers pushing Sherlock down the bed and…and, well, things just went crazy from there. He remembers the sex—and the one after that and the one after that and the one after that. What he doesn’t remember is how they managed to destroy nearly every breakable thing in the bedroom.

 

“That was wild.”

 

Sherlock’s only reply is to mumble and bury his face in the crook of John’s neck, his nose digging uncomfortably in the fresh bite. John sniffs the top of his head. You smell like me, he thinks and the smug Alpha part of his brain is quite pleased. Only for a second, though, as the satisfaction makes way for jealousy/protectiveness overdrive. John does his best to tune out the more idiotic thoughts, the ones that go _I’m going to kill every Alpha within five feet of him he’s mine no body better bloody lay a hand on him I will kill anybody who tries to hurt him I’ll fucking murder them._

This will be hard.

 

He tightens his hold on Sherlock involuntarily, earning a sharp wince from the other. “Hurts,” Sherlock complains and John quickly jumps away, instinct getting the better of him. His leg screams in protest and other parts of him follow but John does his best to pay no mind to them. He knows he’s covered in bruises and he probably looks like shit, but he can’t focus on that, not when Sherlock’s also covered in dark bruises that John knows with one glance will take weeks to heal.

 

“Shit!” John yelps when he sees the damage he’s done on Sherlock’s neck. He didn’t just get carried away. He turned into a bloody zombie. You’re supposed to break the skin, that’s true. You’re not supposed to treat your lover’s neck like a fucking chew toy. It’s not a deep wound and it’s stopped bleeding, but there’s dried blood smeared on Sherlock’s neck, and while John isn’t squeamish, blood and _Sherlock_ just isn’t a good combination. “Shit,” he says again. “What did I do to you?”

 

“You shoved your cock in my arse. Repeatedly.” Sherlock looks at him blankly, still very much himself despite the fact that he’s nude and covered in bruises. “It was nice.”

 

John stares at him, baffled. “ _Nice_?” he nearly yells. “You look awful.”

 

“Your pillow talk needs some serious work,” Sherlock sneers.

 

“Can’t you stop being sarcastic for just one second?” John mutters as he searches for last night’s clothes. He only manages to find his pants and trousers. His shirt has chosen to play hide and seek and John can’t be bothered to go looking for it right now so he just puts on the others. Dimly, he thinks about taking a shower, but he smells quite nice. Alright, probably not nice to other people since he smells like sex and Sherlock and oddly enough shoe polish (why though, he doesn’t know nor does he want to know). But it smells nice for him and Sherlock seems to like it so he decides to go against the idea. He has bigger sproblems in the meantime and it’s staring at the ceiling with a bored expression.

 

“Sher, get up. I’ll put something on that wound of yours.”

 

“No. Hurts to walk.” Sherlock rolls onto his side, grabs one end of the rug, and wraps it over himself so that he resembles a sushi roll. John could hit him. Only right now all he can think about is that Sherlock’s hurt (okay, not as much , but he’s not himself until the novelty of bonding wears off), and he’ll be out of it for the whole day which is why John needs to take care of him, and he can’t do that when Sherlock is currently impersonating Japanese food.

 

“Is this a ploy to get me to carry you again?” he asks and Sherlock, damn him, unrolls himself, snatches a shirt from under the bed (The Lost But Now Found Shirt of One John Watson) and a pair of pants that John is sure belongs to him—though why it’s under the bed as well is a mystery. He quickly puts these on, then, to John’s amusement reaches to him.

 

“You have got to be kidding me.”

 

“I don’t _kid_.”

 

“Why do you keep insisting that I carry you?” John asks though he’s already doing it anyway. This shouldn’t be so easy, John thinks a little worriedly as Sherlock wraps his legs around his waist. It’s a bit awkward what with Sherlock being nearly a head taller than him, but it’s too damn easy. John thinks he can lift him over his shoulder but as soon as the thought crosses his mind, Sherlock digs his fingernails into his nape.

 

“Don’t you dare.”

 

“Lazy sods who can actually walk have no room for complaint.”

 

“It’s a turn on,” Sherlock explains. “The lifting.”

 

“We just had sex for eight hours straight!”

 

“And?”

 

 _And you’re not supposed to think about that. You’re supposed to think about how you never want to have sex again after that. Okay,_ don’t _think about that last one._ But John doesn’t voice his thoughts. It’s likely that Sherlock’s analysing the experience, no doubt making references for the future. John sets him down carefully on the sofa then goes to the bathroom to get the first aid kit. When he gets back, Sherlock’s already sprawled on the sofa in his usual position. He looks lovely, even with his hair looking like something’s latched onto his head and choked on his hair, and it’s unfair and strange because John knows he _shouldn’t_ find him so mesmerising. But that’s the thing about love. It screws with your mind so that even if your partner smells and looks like shit, all you can think about is how gorgeous that person is. He knows Sherlock’s not the most handsome guy in the world and he’s a bit too skinny and a bit too pale. Plus, he’s got this weird fleck of a mole over his right bum that John secretly thinks is where Mycroft injected a microchip in him. And he has a sock index. _A sock index._ That’s beyond normal, even for Sherlock.

 

God, love is dangerous.

 

“I love you,” John blurts out. That wasn’t supposed to come out either but Sherlock smiles at him. He knows he says it all the time. One day it’s going to be a part of his day, like saying ‘good morning’ or ‘hello’. It’s troubling. It’s troubling because this is what his parents did and this is what his friends’ parents do, and when he thinks about it, he can really just see himself and Sherlock like them ten years in the future. It’s normal and that’s what’s strange about it. Sherlock doesn’t do normal. John does, but well, he’s John. He’s ordinary just like his name.

 

_What if we have kids? Does Sherlock want kids?_

_Mum wanted that._

_That would be weird, though. Can’t imagine myself like that._

_Crap, why am I even thinking about this?_

Sherlock frowns at him. “What?”

 

“I’m wondering what you’ll look like when you’re older,” he says quickly. Sherlock definitely won’t react well to what he was really thinking of. He’s sure Sherlock doesn’t like kids. He doesn’t like Cedric and Beatrice. Then again the twins are evil and not exactly loveable the moment you realise they slipped a spider inside your shoe or—and John remembers this and will probably remember it until the day that he dies—announced to everyone in Mycroft’s stupid Christmas party exactly what he and Sherlock had done inside Judge Whoever’s car. In John’s defence, it was entirely Sherlock’s idea and he had absolutely no idea how to unlock the stupid car which Sherlock had infiltrated in order to steal something (looking back, John thinks that it was just a front to experiment with car sex). Still, that didn’t save John from a three hour lecture from Greg and a cold look from Mycroft which he easily translated into you’re-a-dead-man.

 

Sherlock’s still frowning at him. “If you get fat I’m leaving you,” John adds, relishing the way Sherlock’s face changes from neutral to horrified.

 

“Me? Get fat?” Sherlock says incredulously. He pokes John’s middle with a finger. “ _You_ are the one who likes to eat so much.”

 

“Shut up. Now hold still. I’m going to disinfect that.”

 

“You’ll get fat, John. Not as much as Mycroft, though. _Nobody can beat him_. Anyway, I can already see you like that. A tiny fat man drinking tea while watching crap telly— _ouch_!”

 

“Sorry.”

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “You did that on purpose.”

 

“Obviously. You’re a rotten patient!”

 

“And you’re a rotten doctor. I’m certain that it goes against the Hippocratic Oath to feel up your patients while you’re examining them. If this is what you’ve been doing during Afghanistan, John, I won’t hesitate to throw you out of this flat.”

 

“I’m checking your bruises, idiot.” There’s a dark purple one on Sherlock’s forearm. John kisses it gently, and smiles to himself when he looks up and sees Sherlock flush and look away.

 

“Still worried about what I did in Afghanistan?”

 

“No. I don’t worry about you. Don’t be ridiculous, John. I have other more important things to occupy my mind.”

 

“Such as?”

 

“Experiments, cases,” Sherlock replies, wrenching his hand out of John’s grasp. “Speaking of which, fetch me my laptop.”

 

“Get it yourself.”

 

“But I’m injured!”

 

“You can walk.”

 

“John,” Sherlock says. He gives John that look, that you-know-you-love-me-so-do-this-for-me look that tied John to Sherlock’s little finger since that little revelation during Mycroft and Greg’s wedding night. John can fight it—he’s not exactly Sherlock’s servant despite what Harry thinks. But it’s not easy when you’re still more Alpha than normal.

 

“Just this once,” John tells him even though they both know it isn’t true.

 

“Cases are more important than your self-esteem, John,” Sherlock says. “Surely you know that.”

 

“I’m sure that you’re doing your best to piss me off.”

 

“You can’t get angry with me. Later, perhaps, but anger is far from your mind at the moment.” He peers at the screen of his laptop then rolls his eyes. “Idiot,” he mutters in a fond tone that halts John’s thoughts.

 

“Who’s an idiot?” he asks. Sherlock has called nearly everyone he’s met an idiot but no like that, not like how he calls John. It’s weird that there’s a spike of jealousy in his gut when he hears Sherlock call someone else an idiot in that way. Not to mention that it’s kind of degrading but still, he’s Sherlock’s idiot.

 

“Colleague,” Sherlock tells him. “You don’t know him.”

 

“ _Him?_ ”

 

“Jealous,” Sherlock says.

 

“Oh piss off and scoot over.” Sherlock grumbles but moves aside, crowding John’s space again the moment he’s settled on the sofa. “Ouch! Your elbow’s stabbing my gut.”

 

“Well, you’re fat.”

 

“I am not. You can’t be fat in the army. You’d get murdered for one thing.” He peeks over Sherlock’s shoulder. “What on earth is The Science of Deduction, anyway?”

 

“My website.”

 

“You have a website…Since when?”

 

“Irrelevant.”

 

 “Who the hell is theimprobableone?”

 

“He’s offering me a new flat.”

 

“Oh.”

 

John stops.

 

“What did you say?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Congratulations,” Greg says with a knowing smirk. “I knew it already. Sherlock always texts back.”

 

John laughs nervously. “Er, thanks I guess.” He looks at his surroundings and takes note of three things. 1)  There’s a dead body in the middle of the parking lot. 2) There are officers looking at him suspiciously, making John feel like he’s actually contributed to the crime. 3) There is an annoying constable eyeing Sherlock’s arse, though it is hard not to eye said arse when Sherlock is currently on his hands and knees, staring intently at the pool of blood surrounding the body. John knows he doesn’t belong here. He shouldn’t have agreed to escort Sherlock to a crime scene. He feels a bit like ugly wallpaper, unimportant but glaringly, obviously there.

 

“Um,” he says, “I shouldn’t be here, right?”

 

“Mycroft insisted,” Greg explains. “Besides, you two will be inseparable for at least a week. It won’t do well to have you far away from each other. I do hope you aren’t squeamish.”

 

John snorts. “I was in Afghanistan _and_ I live with him. I don’t think I can be ever be squeamish.”

 

“You going back then?” Greg asks. “And he’s okay with that?”

 

“As long as I don’t get shot,” John answers grimly. A scowl crosses his face when the constable starts to talk to Sherlock. Greg notices and laughs.

 

“Hopkins,” Greg says. “He’s new. Got a huge crush on Sherlock but he’s harmless, really. He’s probably crushed now that he’s officially off the market.”

 

“Should I be worried?”

 

“Seriously, John? Sherlock hates him. Well, he hates everyone here except for me.” Greg rolls his eyes. “Honestly, if he weren’t so good I’d have kicked his arse long ago. Ah, wait, I think he’s calling you.”

 

“I’m allowed to go near the body?”

 

“Well, no, not really. But if it keeps him from causing a scene then sure, go ahead.”

 

Eyes follow him as he makes his way towards Sherlock. It feels weird, feels like his graduation day, like he wants to run but at the same time he doesn’t want to because there’s a reward at the end. John scratches his nose and wonders why on earth he itches when he’s nervous. Sherlock raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on it.

 

“I need your opinion,” Sherlock tells him.

 

“That’s—that’s something I don’t hear every day. Why?”

 

“I just want a second opinion,” Sherlock says. John can tell he’s getting impatient. He’s giving John that you’re-such-a-bloody-idiot look which is much different from the I-know-you’re-an-idiot-but-whatever-I-still-want-to-have-sex-with-you which is slightly different from the your-idiocy-is-rather-endearing-and-it-makes-me-want-to-kiss-you. John hates this look. He’s sure everyone else hates this look because it makes them aware that they probably have the intellect of slugs when compared to Sherlock’s genius. John’s frowning and Sherlock, sensing his upset, gives him the please-do-this-for-me look.

 

“You’re just going to make fun of me.”

 

“I don’t make fun of you.”

 

“You call me an idiot on a daily basis.”

 

“Because you are!” Sherlock groans.

 

“That’s a bit not good.”

 

“Yes, but—just listen, alright?”

 

John opens his mouth to protest but Sherlock cuts him off. “You are and you’re not, because we both know I’m smarter than you and we both know you’re better in dealing with people. But we share a flat anyway and you complain about my socks—”

 

“Sock index.”

 

“Oh, shut up. Anyway, you complain about my socks and my experiments but you still make tea and cook dinner and you insist on watching crap telly and I watch it as well even though I hate it because you like it and—God, I’m blabbing. I sound like Rochewell.”

 

John grins. “So you’re saying you’re an idiot as well. In a way? And that we fit because you’re an idiot as well in some aspects?”

 

Sherlock scowls. “No. Yes. Damn it, John, just—We’re wasting time.” He looks over his shoulder. “And people are looking.”

 

“Fine. I’ll _help_.” He crouches next to Sherlock and inspects the body. “Ballerina?”

 

“Yes.” Sherlock smiles at him.

 

“I mean, it’s obvious. Legs like that just shout it. I remember Patricia Rowley’s legs—”

 

“ _John._ ”

 

“Sorry. Long time ago. Before we became…you know.”

 

“Right.”

 

“Jealous?”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes then returns his attention to the body. “I love you,” he says and John nearly topples forward. It’s a good thing he regains his balance because he’s sure the officers won’t take kindly to him being on top of the victim.

 

It shouldn’t be romantic. There’s blood for one thing and they aren’t the only people in the room. There’s a small frown on Sherlock’s face and John can sense a hint of Sherlock’s emotions. Nervous, he thinks, confirming it when he sees how tense Sherlock’s hands are. John looks up and sees that everyone’s attention has shifted to one of the officers who is boasting about some concert tickets.

 

“Love you, too,” he says, leaning against him to quickly press a kiss on his temple. Sherlock smiles at him.

 

“Crime scene, John.”

 

“I know. But, you know, I really do mean it.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I really, really do mean it.”

 

“Alright.”

 

“Marry me, then.”

 

Sherlock nearly chokes on his own spit.

 

“ _What_?”                                                                    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the last oh my god it's done I can't uuuuugh. Anyway, click next to see my notes and other crap.


	22. Additional Stuff from the Writer Just for the Heck of It

 

 

The drawings are a few of my notes for both TNK and Venn Diagram.

All of my notes are in drawing form. Sometimes I write but I think better when I just draw the scenes.

I filled a whole notebook which I will throw away as soon as Venn is finished (it should never see the light of day).

 

Left: Chapter 15 *wink, wink*/ Right: This one's for Venn Diagram

Left: Younger Mycroft and Greg (VD)/ Right: Luke and Greg

 

Left and Right: I dunno. They're my otp.

Left: Chapter Four/ Right:Victor (above) and Sherrinford (below)

Left: Young Sherlock and the bee/bear/ Right: A really weird scene in Venn Diagram featuring Luke in drag.

* * *

 

**Why is this woven into omegaverse?**

Here is the truth: this began as a dare.

 

Omegaverse is weird for my friends, and I must admit, that there are some things that weird me out as well (though not enough to make me shy away from omegaverse stories). The dare was to write an omegaverse short story that would _not_ weird them out. So this was born, and the idea appealed to me so it kind of got long…and longer and longer and longer and hey, it’s turned into a series.

 

**Characters, both Not Mine and Definitely Mine:**

 

**Sherlock**

 

I could have gone for misunderstood Sherlock, but I made him a brat and a real jerk as a child. While I did make Siger Holmes an unloving, even abusive father, Sherlock’s misbehaviour did not entirely come from the mistreatment, but from subconsciously absorbing his father’s bad traits. Compared to the canon Sherlock we all so love and not hate because, hey, how can we hate that gorgeous man, I made Sherlock a little more emotional here due to his having met John at an early age. Young Sherlock also makes a lot of mistakes and, due to his having been spoiled, is also quite dependent on people though he’ll never admit it.

**Mycroft**

 

Oh dear, the character I have the hardest time writing. Like Sherlock, I made Mycroft less of an ice man here due to his having met Greg at an early age. Also, he makes quite a lot of mistakes, especially in raising Sherlock. Unlike his brother, though, Mycroft cares a lot about his image and idolized his father, at least until chapter four when he asked him to go away for Sherlock’s well-being, Mycroft’s childhood is barely mentioned in the first part as Venn Diagram is all about his growing up with Greg.

 

**Sherrinford**

 

I’ve read a lot of fics where Sherrinford comes in and he’s always played as the estranged older brother. I jumped in the bandwagon. Sherrinford has the same qualities as his father which is ironic as Mycroft dislikes him and Sherlock is fascinated by him. We all know that Sherlock is mad, that Mycroft is even more twisted, so Sherrinford already has one foot in the asylum, so much that both Sherlock and Mycroft are fooled into thinking that he suffers from the same psychosomatic disorder as their father (lithium=bipolar disorder). He doesn’t really care for Sherlock and Mycroft, though he is fascinated by them, due to having the same level of intelligence as them. He’s sort of like the Moriarty for Mycroft, though his only purpose is to annoy the hell out of Mycroft.

 

**John**

John is the easiest for me because compared to Sherlock and Mycroft, he’s quite, how you say, normal. Compared to canon, John acts just like any other young adult: irresponsible and carefree. John’s denial of Sherlock in the earlier chapters isn’t just because of Sherlock’s youth, but also because of John’s willingness to fit in with his friends and also reflects his refusal to be part of the aristocratic lifestyle Sherlock and Mycroft are tied to. He also isn’t the cuddly bamf we all love and know, at least, not yet. I figured he’d just have to learn how to be one in the army.

 

**Greg**

Like in canon, I made Greg a paternal figure to Sherlock as in this story he practically raised Sherlock alongside Mycroft. Greg’s childhood and teenage years are never elaborated in the first part which is why his transition from punk!Lestrade to the Lestrade of canon is absent. Compared to Sherlock and John, his relationship with Mycroft has less problems due to the fact that they got together at an earlier age (thirteen and fourteen). Like Sherlock, Greg is also different as an Omega, though this is, again, elaborated in Venn Diagram.

 

**Luke**

Luke, my demented baby, represents that one friend we all have, the source of comedic relief in the group. There are only snippets of Luke here, but he plays a big role in the M/L side as he grows up with Greg--who just loves to tell Luke how stupid he is. His character is based on Gob Bluth of Arrested Development and Bernard Black of Black Books.

 

**Victor**

Victor is, like I said, the Eponine in this story. I could have made him an emotional cockblock or just, you know, a real cockblock but I chose to make Victor insecure of himself so he never speaks out until the end. While you can’t exactly call Sherlock and Victor friends, the familiarity between them makes Sherlock subconsciously dependent on Victor, who actually understands Sherlock even better than John due to Sherlock’s treating him like the skull. His leaving indicates Sherlock’s need to fend for himself.

 

**Mike, Patrick, and Bill**

Friiiieeeeenddds. You know that thing about guys having the best friendships, the ones that seem so uncomplicated because when they have a fight they’re friends again the moment it’s over? Yup, that’s these three, the supporters of John. Bill may also secretly be chairman of the Johnlock fan club because of how much he pesters John about Sherlock. They help even when help is not needed.

 

**Sarah**

In this story, simply John’s first time, his failed date, and later, just a friend though Sherlock often thinks otherwise. Sarah only has two conversations with John here, the first during their date, and the second during John’s depression. The second is a parallel to Sherlock’s conversation with Victor.

 

 

**Billy**

If Bill Murray is John’s number one fan, then Billy is Sherlock’s. He serves as a mini canon Lestrade for Sherlock  during his teenage years and helps establish Sherlock’s homeless network. His connection with Sherlock disappears once Greg is able to have Sherlock help in crime scenes, though the homeless network never fades.

 

**Cedric and Beatrice**

Greg and Mycroft’s hellions make more appearances in the second part and even grow up there. Cedric is Sherlock 2. Beatrice is Mycroft 2. You can imagine the Christmas dinners.

 

**Ewan Reed (Chapter 20)**

 

This character was inspired by Anthony Swofford’s “Jarhead”.

 

* * *

 

**Other things:**

 

**Sherlock’s bear**

The mysterious bear in the bee costume has a history, as in a Mycroft-bought-that-for-him-when-he-was-a-baby history. I know, the bear is significant??? The strangeness of it (because more than one person commented on how strange it looks) is a reflection of Sherlock’s being different, even as a small child. His clinging to the bear is his acceptance of it.

 

 

**The Beatles**

No, no, The Beatles don’t affect any of the characters in any way. There is, however, something truly wrong with my mind. There are a lot of references here, like how Sherlock’s doctor is named Dr Robert, and in chapter eleven, the murder weapon Sherlock found is a silver hammer and that there is a character there named Maxwell (in reference to the song “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer”). Again, obsession with details so please excuse me. There are a lot more in there.

 

**Mycroft’s ring**

 

Here, Mycroft’s ring is only mentioned in one chapter. Mycroft is Sherlock’s sentinel (see end notes of chapter 2, Venn Diagram).

 

 

**1984**

George Orwell’s “1984” is mentioned in chapter five, as a reference to Mycroft beginning his Big Brother days.

 

  **Does John really get married to Sherlock?**

 **  
**Reread chapter 16.

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**THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING THIS STORY. IF YOU WISH TO CONTINUE GO READ VENN. IF NOT, THEN THAT'S FINE. IT'S ALL FINE.**


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